The Confectioner's Tale Part 17

I stand uncertain. Lefevre is panting; his eyes squeezed shut in pain. I turn away to fetch his wife, but he catches my hand, points insistently towards the shelves.

He appears to be recovering, so I push up my sleeves and get to work. The files are full of letters, papers, copies of ledgers. They're neatly organized, but finding one envelope among them all will be no easy task. My fringe sticks to my forehead and my nose is itching with dust by the time I start on a third box. I drag it into the light and sit cross-legged to trawl through the contents.

My legs are just starting to turn numb when a loop of ink catches my eye, a familiar scrawl that makes my heart contract.

'Mr Lefevre!'

He is instantly alert, leaning forward as I extract the letter from its plastic wallet. The paper of the envelope is fragile, feels as though it could rip at the slightest touch. It is worn, dirtied by countless hands, but there is no mistaking those untidy characters: G. du Frere, POSTE RESTANTE, Bordeaux, France.

'I know the writing,' I tell the old man shakily. 'It's his, it's Grandpa Jim's, I'm certain.'

'Open it.' Lefevre's voice is husky.

My fingers rest upon the edge of the envelope. It feels wrong, to open something so long sealed. Without warning, my eyes are stinging with tears.

'I can't,' I whisper, unable to look up.

'What are you afraid you'll find?'

I cannot answer; the words are too far buried, wrapped around my love for a man who was more of a father to me than I ever realized.

'I'm sorry,' I whisper to my grandfather's memory, to myself as I rip open the envelope.

Chapter Twenty-Eight.

March 1988 'I don't think I can get away early,' Gui whispered. 'The delivery this morning was so big, most of us are still trying to catch up.'

Mademoiselle Clermont sighed in frustration. Their Sunday metro trips had become a weekly routine. Her aunt was none the wiser, so it seemed that Emile, the chauffeur, had been as good as his word.

'The delivery will be for the Easter party, next Sat.u.r.day,' she told him. 'Father has been making the most ridiculous fuss.'

'Are you speaking again?' Gui asked.

'Yes, if you count a one-word exchange as speaking.'

'You will have to forgive him eventually.'

'Not whilst that mop-pus.h.i.+ng ape is ruining my delivery ledgers,' she said, drumming her fingers on the doorframe. 'It really is vexing about tonight. Father is dining out and Aunt has tickets to the opera; neither of them shall be home until after midnight. I thought that rather than going to see Lili, we might have visited some of the other stations.'

Gui's heartbeat trebled. Mademoiselle Clermont wanted to spend the evening with him. He racked his brain. 'Ebersole is in charge,' he told her, 'so perhaps I can get away by seven.'

Footsteps approached in the corridor and he hurriedly pushed the door between them closed.

'Guillaume!'

Mademoiselle Clermont was peering through the gap, a devious smile on her face.

Metro, seven she mouthed.

Stifling a grin, he hurried back to the kitchen.

That afternoon was a first for Gui; it seemed his talents with pastry had not gone unnoticed, for Ebersole teamed him up with Maurice and set the pair of them making tarte tatin. The other apprentices looked on from their ch.o.r.es with envy, as Gui rolled and folded and re-rolled the b.u.t.ter-filled pastry from the day before, his quick, cold fingers barely leaving a mark on the soft surface.

Maurice was at the stove, creating a dark caramel from b.u.t.ter and sugar. Another apprentice was slicing up a box of apples from the winter store. When the sheets of pastry were the thickness of a sou, Maurice showed him how to score them with a knife into perfect rounds.

Together, they a.s.sembled the tarts. When they finally emerged from the oven, they were upturned onto serving plates, deeply caramelized, crisp and sweet. Gui felt a swell of pride as he watched them disappear into the ptisserie, to be sold to the rich and discerning.

The day flew by, and soon he found himself fumbling with the b.u.t.tons of his street clothes. Mademoiselle Clermont would be waiting. He had pleaded stomach pains, and Ebersole had allowed him to leave early. There was a fluttering in his chest, as if his lungs had expanded too far. He was never usually nervous about his trips with Mademoiselle Clermont, but something told him that tonight might be different. He stared down at his secondhand clothes, tight and loose in all the wrong places.

'Maurice, lend me your hat, will you?' he asked the older man.

'Why should I?'

'Come on, just for tonight.'

'Not unless you tell me why,' Maurice baited, spinning the brown hat on one finger. 'I take it your stomach ache is a rendezvous? Aren't you a bit young for the Belleville girls?'

The entire cloakroom had looked around, taking an interest in the exchange.

'She's not a Belleville girl,' Gui whispered, face reddening. 'Please, I'll give you my share of supper tomorrow.'

'Respectable lady, eh?' Maurice continued remorselessly. 'Going to take her for a drink, see some singers at the Folies? Home for tea with father by ten?'

'Just give me the hat.'

Amidst much laughter, Maurice jammed the felt hat onto Gui's head. It was too big, so he folded up a sheet of newspaper to act as padding. The effect was not all he had hoped, but if he blurred his eyes, his reflection did have a degree of civility.

'If corks aren't popped tonight, I want a return on my investment!' Maurice roared as he made his escape into the street.

As he neared the metro, he made out a slim figure waiting beside a lamppost.

'Bon soir!' Gui called.

Mademoiselle Clermont spun. Her limbs relaxed when she saw him, but anxiety remained etched across her face, partly hidden beneath a fine veil. He wondered if it was for disguise.

'Is everything all right?' he said, frowning.

Meeting his gaze, a laugh burst from her lips. It surprised her as much as him, for she clapped a satin-gloved hand to her mouth.

'What is it?' he demanded as she fought to control herself.

'I am sorry, Guillaume, it's nothing, really.'

'It's the hat, isn't it?' he accused.

'No, no, it looks very fine.' Still smiling, she took his arm. 'So, where are we to visit this evening, Monsieur du Frere?'

'I thought we might go to the Left Bank.'

Gui knew he was taking a risk. The Left Bank was everything that Ptisserie Clermont was not: riotous and gritty, seething with artists and writers, painters, musicians, all ravenous for experience, living in a frenzy of colour and newness and abandonment. Gui was desperate to see it, to show Mademoiselle Clermont a real part of Paris, grime and joy and all. He watched as, with the resolution of one swallowing medicine, she nodded.

'The Left Bank,' she said. 'I've heard that there are women there who wear men's suits.' He could tell she was trying to sound nonchalant.

'How shocking.' He grinned, and some of her anxiety dropped away as she smiled in return.

Arm on arm they strolled towards Concorde. The night felt warmer than usual, a hint of spring to come, although most of the city remained steadfastly bleak and grey. They pa.s.sed an older couple, out taking the air. Gui touched his hat to them in greeting.

The metro at Concorde was busy. Third cla.s.s offered obscurity; sitting shoulder to shoulder on the narrow bench, they could have been anyone. There was a moment when the train jolted on its tracks, throwing them sideways. Gui found himself clasping a slim hand. In the flickering light of the tunnel, their eyes met. A hundred words and none pa.s.sed between them, until Mademoiselle Clermont looked away.

They were still hand in hand when the train came to a stop at Chtelet. They hurried ahead of the departing crowd as best they could, although Mademoiselle was hindered by the narrowness of her skirts. More than once she had to stop and tug at the garment.

'I chose the fabric,' she told Gui breathlessly. In the lamplight, he caught a glimpse of satin, blue-black as a raven's wing. 'My aunt let me, so long as she settled on the design. She doesn't know that I telephoned the seamstress and changed it.'

At the end of the street, the Seine spread itself to the left and right, its surface rippling with gas lamps. The bridge was dotted with people, couples, motor cars, late-night flower sellers offering blue paper roses and more besides. A taxi cab stood juddering at the edge of the pavement.

'I'm not going past the bridge,' the driver was saying stubbornly, pumping the starter handle. 'You'll have to find another cab over there. Or walk.'

A tall young man prowled by the door of the vehicle.

'The journey has been paid for!' he fumed. 'Come now, boss, it will take you less than ten minutes.'

'I told you,' the driver said angrily, 'I don't deal with the Left Bank. Now move.'

'You'll have to run me down first!'

The taxi driver clambered up to his seat and began to steer the motor car around in a semicircle. Gui and Mademoiselle Clermont paused, alongside several other pa.s.sers-by, to observe the scene. To their amazement, the young man planted himself in the path of the taxi.

'Avancez maintenant, frog!' he yelled to the approaching headlights.

The taxi trundled forward with increasing speed. At the last minute the man was forced to leap to one side; the motor car shot through a puddle, showering him with a spray of mud before rattling off into the night.

Spectacle over, the crowd began to disperse, leaving the young man to pick himself up from the ground.

'Are you all right?' asked Gui, although Mademoiselle Clermont gripped his arm to stop him.

'Nothing damaged save for pride, all in a night's work,' said the stranger, extracting a handkerchief.

He had an odd accent; Gui guessed at English or Swiss. He was younger than he first appeared, and thin, like a pile of sticks wrapped in a suit. His clothes were finely made, although there were tell-tale patches of darning, worn elbows that spoke of long hours propped on a desk.

'It would seem I lost my composure,' the young man said, catching his breath. 'If I had not, I might have succeeded in knocking that brute out of his little cab.'

'Well, if you are sure you feel well ...' Gui turned away.

'Determined to short change me is what he was.' The young man had fallen into step beside them. Gui felt a pinch on his wrist and glanced at Mademoiselle Clermont. Now look at what we must deal with, her stare said. With an apologetic look, Gui turned back to the man's conversation.

'... is why one should never pay a taxi in advance. Of course, if they gave me enough cash this would never have happened, but no, it is all pre-approved expenses for staff these days.'

'If you will excuse us,' Mademoiselle Clermont interrupted, 'we were enjoying a private conversation.'

Rather than flinch at the iciness of her tone, the young man coughed out a laugh behind a cheap cigarette.

'Old manners prevail only as far as the end of the bridge, I'm afraid, miss. I'm Jim.' He stuck out a hand. 'Writer, hack, really. Been in Paris a few months. You?'

'Guillaume du Frere. Apprentice chef. This is-'

'You may call me Jeanne,' Mademoiselle Clermont said quickly.

'A pleasure to meet you both, Guillaume and Jeanne. How long have you two been married?'

'A month.'

'We are not-'

In unison, they gaped at each other. Gui cursed himself and Jeanne shot him an impenetrable look before wading into the mire of conversation.

'We are not married yet,' she corrected. 'Engaged for a month, is what he means.'

Jim was not troubled by the confusion, merely took another drag on his cigarette.

'If you insist.'

'What does that mean?' she demanded.

'It means, Mademoiselle, that we have reached the Left Bank. Now the world is whatever we make it.' Their new acquaintance stopped in the middle of the street and spread his arms. 'Where are you two lovebirds heading? Do you have a place in mind or can I pa.s.s on an honest recommendation, as a resident of these fair streets?'

'What do you say, Mam'selle?' whispered Gui. 'We are for an adventure, after all?'

He squeezed her hand, and her wariness thawed, just a little.

'Very well,' she answered after some consideration. 'We will accept your recommendation, so long as the place is reputable.'

'Of course!' cried Jim. 'What do you take me for? I may be an immigrant but I know a few things about propriety.'

'Where are you from, Jim?' Gui asked as they strolled away from the river. 'You said you had only been here for a few months?'

'England.' The young man swung an imaginary golf-stroke. 'Surrey, to be precise.'

'Your French is excellent,' Jeanne said hesitantly.

'Studied the language in my student days. Learned it from my nursemaid as a child, too. Sylvie. She was from Paris, or Belleville, if you call that Paris. Atrocious accent. Used to get the penny song-sheets sent over to her, and teach them to me during playtime.'