In the country of France, in the region of Provence, in the Department of Var, a black, cold, eerie, stillness enveloped the village of Three Hills.
The occupants of the picturesque, but decaying, old village, had been abed for several hours.
Even the new road, which connected the village to the nearest city and coast in one direction, sweeping the eastern outskirts and then inland to join the motorway in the other, was silent.
It was so quiet, and the darkness so dense that a rodent broke covers and searched the pavement edge of the T junction heart of the village. This was normal for the season, just as it had been earlier, at midday, for old men to pavement sit, gossiping, remembering, and hoping that the monotony of their experience would be broken by the bump of a tourist vehicle coming up the hill, and turning across traffic without knowing that locals continued to take the original right of way.
It was cold enough for everyone to have closed both window and shutter, but on the outside, noise carried from street to street, and area to area.
No one in the old village subsequently reported to having been awoken by the gunshots, and even those living in the quixotic shaped buildings leading up to the landmark summit of the principal hill had been undisturbed by unnatural activity. From the top western slopes, the dwellings overlooked the second hill, and beyond to the unpopulated side of Little Hill from where the shots had come.
Two communities occupied the second hill.
On the lower east and south slopes there was a small post war development of public housing, including prized accommodation for the elderly, overlooking terraced municipal grounds, with safe play for young children, two tennis courts, a kickabout plot, a scatter of shrubs and simple seating.
None of the occupants of this distinctly working class appendage were disturbed by the bangs, but a few souls had stirred, unaware why, in the private, middle class modern properties on the western upper slopes of the hill, bordering the single tarmac road which wound round into the place known locally as Newlands valley.
The dozen homesteads of Newlands had also been created after 1945. In the back to nature climate and prosperity of the sixties, the owner of this fertile, sheltered land, had grasped that idealistic townsfolk would pay well for a comparatively small area of land to build a home, and as a sideline, run a few chickens, and grow vegetables and fruits, including the grape.
All the residents had once been newcomers to the village and were still collectively branded as strange folk for their way out choice of living place rather than any known quirks of behaviour. They were not considered to be villagers and were treated as only slightly better than 'the commuters', and those who owned the holiday lets.
Newlands residents woken by the shots returned to sleep without concern. Any outside playing child's laughter, or cry, a dog's bark, or the bang of a door, could be heard across the valley during the active part of the day. Such was the constant solitude that it was common for casual visitors to lower voices down to whispers once they realised that sound flowed until it bounced back off the surrounding wooded hills.
One resident subsequently told enquirers that he had assumed the cause of the unscheduled awakening had been the backfiring of a car, somewhere, most likely on Little Hill, arriving late, or setting off early. It was an acceptable consequence of the holiday trade located on the hillside farthest away from the village centre.
The only other exit from the valley was a single pot holed track which cut across a wooded plateau before joining the tarmac road created when holiday villas were built on the previously undeveloped Little Hill.
Several woodland tracks branched across the plateau and one of these led to the villa, the Little Paradise. Although secluded and apart, everyone in the village knew the English owner Paul, and that from early spring to late autumn he entertained parties of young women. Once a fortnight he would bring guests to the only hotel for a meal, and unlike those using the holiday homes, or 'the commuters', he used the village stores, and out of season, he employed locals to upkeep the property, and he contributed financially to both church and village developments on a regular basis.
There was genuine shock and disbelief at the subsequent revelations.
The occupants of the picturesque, but decaying, old village, had been abed for several hours.
Even the new road, which connected the village to the nearest city and coast in one direction, sweeping the eastern outskirts and then inland to join the motorway in the other, was silent.
It was so quiet, and the darkness so dense that a rodent broke covers and searched the pavement edge of the T junction heart of the village. This was normal for the season, just as it had been earlier, at midday, for old men to pavement sit, gossiping, remembering, and hoping that the monotony of their experience would be broken by the bump of a tourist vehicle coming up the hill, and turning across traffic without knowing that locals continued to take the original right of way.
It was cold enough for everyone to have closed both window and shutter, but on the outside, noise carried from street to street, and area to area.
No one in the old village subsequently reported to having been awoken by the gunshots, and even those living in the quixotic shaped buildings leading up to the landmark summit of the principal hill had been undisturbed by unnatural activity. From the top western slopes, the dwellings overlooked the second hill, and beyond to the unpopulated side of Little Hill from where the shots had come.
Two communities occupied the second hill.
On the lower east and south slopes there was a small post war development of public housing, including prized accommodation for the elderly, overlooking terraced municipal grounds, with safe play for young children, two tennis courts, a kickabout plot, a scatter of shrubs and simple seating.
None of the occupants of this distinctly working class appendage were disturbed by the bangs, but a few souls had stirred, unaware why, in the private, middle class modern properties on the western upper slopes of the hill, bordering the single tarmac road which wound round into the place known locally as Newlands valley.
The dozen homesteads of Newlands had also been created after 1945. In the back to nature climate and prosperity of the sixties, the owner of this fertile, sheltered land, had grasped that idealistic townsfolk would pay well for a comparatively small area of land to build a home, and as a sideline, run a few chickens, and grow vegetables and fruits, including the grape.
All the residents had once been newcomers to the village and were still collectively branded as strange folk for their way out choice of living place rather than any known quirks of behaviour. They were not considered to be villagers and were treated as only slightly better than 'the commuters', and those who owned the holiday lets.
Newlands residents woken by the shots returned to sleep without concern. Any outside playing child's laughter, or cry, a dog's bark, or the bang of a door, could be heard across the valley during the active part of the day. Such was the constant solitude that it was common for casual visitors to lower voices down to whispers once they realised that sound flowed until it bounced back off the surrounding wooded hills.
One resident subsequently told enquirers that he had assumed the cause of the unscheduled awakening had been the backfiring of a car, somewhere, most likely on Little Hill, arriving late, or setting off early. It was an acceptable consequence of the holiday trade located on the hillside farthest away from the village centre.
The only other exit from the valley was a single pot holed track which cut across a wooded plateau before joining the tarmac road created when holiday villas were built on the previously undeveloped Little Hill.
Several woodland tracks branched across the plateau and one of these led to the villa, the Little Paradise. Although secluded and apart, everyone in the village knew the English owner Paul, and that from early spring to late autumn he entertained parties of young women. Once a fortnight he would bring guests to the only hotel for a meal, and unlike those using the holiday homes, or 'the commuters', he used the village stores, and out of season, he employed locals to upkeep the property, and he contributed financially to both church and village developments on a regular basis.
There was genuine shock and disbelief at the subsequent revelations.
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