It was the horns that Imogen heard first. Frustrated drivers weren’t unusual in the narrow village high street but by the cacophony she could hear out of the window, these car owners were clearly multiple and on a scale that was tipping into apoplectic.
Curious, Imogen wiped her hands on a cloth to clean off the pastry flour. Bruno’s Cafe faced the high street and she headed for the window and looked out.
She reeled in surprise. There were one, two, three, she counted, massive removal vans in the road outside, each trying to get past the line of parked cars. They had blocked the road in each direction. Imogen watched as they moved forward determinedly, set on their task of getting to their destination, unable to reverse, having no intention of reversing.
A weight, solid as a stone, fell into the pit of her stomach. She was inexplicably reminded of old Second World War footage, enemy tanks rolling into French villages, conquering, flags aloft, taking everything that wasn’t theirs. The tribal drumbeat of the soldiers’ marching boots menacing as they advanced.
Imogen had a sudden urge to run out of the kitchen and stand in the middle of the road. Stop the advancement with her bare hands. As she watched, she caught her reflection in the glass of the windowpane. Her cool blonde hair was tied up, her chef’s whites a reminder of what she was being paid to do. She was powerless, trapped in this kitchen with no prospect of leaving.
The procession continued outside. Imogen shook the earlier image from her head. There were no soldiers, no military tanks. Just removal vans.
She knew where they were going.
What she didn’t know yet was who they belonged to.