The Confectioner's Tale Part 18

Linking his hands under his chin, Jim bounded forward into the road and began to sing in a high-pitched warble.

'Tu tressailles sous ma caresse, de si voluptueux frissons, que pour avoir pareille ivresse, rebrouillons-nous, recommencons!'

A group of pa.s.sing men and women broke into applause. Jim curtsied and fluttered his hand, and even Jeanne could not keep herself from laughing. Their newfound friend was delighted with the attention and kept up a constant stream of chatter as they walked. Turning a corner, they were confronted by manic fizzing as a tram rolled past. Sparks shot from the wire on the roof as it slid to a halt.

'Allons-y!' hissed Jim, sidling up to the back step and leaping on in a crouch to avoid the conductor.

'We'll walk,' Gui announced. 'Mademoiselle can't jump on in her gown.'

But Jeanne was already gone, hoisting her skirt to allow herself an inch or two of movement. Jim handed her up to the step. The tram sparked again and there was nothing for Gui to do but hop on after them and hope for the best.

They hung from the back railing, all in a row, breath misting in the chill March air. Glancing at his companions, happiness rose in Gui's chest and he let out a whoop as the tram gathered speed. The conductor caught sight of them and rolled his eyes. Minutes later they tumbled off in the heart of Montparna.s.se.

'This is the place!' Jim proclaimed outside a cafe where, despite the season, tables spilled out onto the streets. Men in evening jackets and ratty waistcoats stood with gla.s.ses in hand. Women, too, in loose, printed dresses and furs, trailing cigarettes.

'La Rotonde.' He guided them beneath a flickering electric sign towards an empty table and signalled for a waiter. 'Homes may come and go, but with a few centimes, or s.h.i.+llings in your pocket, you'll find your way from here.'

'What if we aren't lost?' Jeanne smiled, unpinning her hat.

Jim's answer was lost on Gui as he stared. Jeanne's hair was cut short. For the first time it was not hidden beneath flowers and veils. It was dark and smooth and curled simply beneath her earlobes, held back on one side by an ebony pin. A collar still encased her neck, lace rising from the deep blue satin.

'You look ...' Gui choked on his own words.

Jim raised his gla.s.s a fraction, unexpected interest in his eyes. 'I think my new friend intended to pay you a compliment, Mademoiselle,' he said. 'You do indeed look striking. Truly la mode.'

'Thank you,' Jeanne murmured, her lips quirking into a smile as she accepted a gla.s.s of anisette.

Gui scowled at Jim, but any rivalry was soon forgotten in lively conversation. A dark-haired pianist sidled into the corner, along with a tall cello player. They launched into a swaying melody.

'Would Mademoiselle care ...?' Jim started.

'I believe I promised the first dance of the evening to Monsieur du Frere, thank you,' Jeanne said as she stood.

Draining his gla.s.s, Gui followed her onto the floor, trying desperately to remember whether he knew anything about dancing. He couldn't make out whether the music was a waltz or a two-step, or something entirely unfamiliar. As soon as he closed one hand around Jeanne's waist, he found that he didn't care.

'You do look wonderful,' he managed to say with an embarra.s.sed smile. 'I am sorry I didn't say so earlier. I mean, about your hair.'

'My aunt will never let me wear it like this in public. I know it must look strange.'

'I like it.' Her eyes were an even brighter blue, up close, and he remembered the electric jolt that had pa.s.sed through him the first time she had touched his face in the freezing alleyway. 'It's different. You are different.'

'I am not sure I intend to be.'

'What do you mean?'

More couples were joining the dance floor, the crowd s.h.i.+elding them from everything outside, from everything that shunned, that disapproved.

'I did not cut my hair by choice.' She was studying a spot on his lapel with great concentration. 'I cannot grow it any longer. There is scar tissue and the doctor advises against it.'

He was silent as she dropped his hand, and with something like resentment, pulled her high collar down an inch. The skin beneath was angry, stretched and puckered into uneven ridges. Up close, he could see that it reached into her hairline, towards the base of her skull. The bodies of the other dancers were packed in so closely, no one noticed that they had stopped moving.

'What happened?' he whispered.

The fabric at Jeanne's throat beat with her pulse.

'I was in the kitchens with Father,' she said, 'when I was small. One of the chefs forgot about a pan of boiling sugar. I smelled it burning and tried to get Father's attention but he wouldn't listen. I thought I would be able to reach ...'

Tears were gathering in her eyes, threatening to spill over as she raised a protective palm to her neck.

'I know it's horrible, but I had to show you.'

She turned away, but Gui leaned forward and caught her face in his hands.

'Jeanne Clermont,' he whispered recklessly beneath the music, 'you are the most beautiful girl I have ever seen-'

Then her lips were on his. He felt the heat of her mouth, one of her hands grazing his face. The band drew out its final note.

The dancers drifted apart and he stepped back with difficulty, his whole body trembling. They returned to the table hand in hand, eyes bright and faces flushed, where Jim waited with another round of drinks.

'Brava,' he saluted them, 'to the soon-to-be happy couple.'

The evening grew louder. Jim introduced them to all manner of people with strange names and even stranger accents. They even had their likeness taken by a friend of his with a portable photographic camera. At eleven, they made their farewells. Gui loosed a breath of happiness as they stepped into the brisk night.

'Gui! Jeanne!' came a shout from behind them. Jim was leaning out the door, tie loosened, empty gla.s.s in hand. 'Where am I to contact you should the occasion arise?'

'Ptisserie Clermont,' Gui shouted back, already wondering when he could catch another moment with Jeanne. 'Yourself?'

'Here, they'll know where to find me, just ask for Jim Stevenson.'

Chapter Twenty-Nine.

May 1988 The phone rings and rings; I imagine it shrilling into the chaos of Whyke's office. Finally, it clatters into life.

'h.e.l.lo?' he answers breathlessly. He sounds like he's been running.

'Professor, it's Petra,' I shout. The phone box I'm using is ancient and the line is bad.

'Where are you?' his voice crackles.

'Penzance station. I've just come from seeing Mr Lefevre. They asked me to stay last night. It was too late for the train after we'd finished talking.'

'And?' Whyke sounds as impatient as I feel.

'I read the letter,' I rush, 'it was from my grandfather. And it explains some of what happened, but not all-' The phone starts beeping urgently. I fumble in my pocket for more change. 'I can't talk for much longer, but I have the letter, the real one. Lefevre gave it to me. I'll show you when I get back.'

'Where are you going now?'

'London, to read the article.'

'I'll phone ahead and make sure it's reserved for you.'

'Thanks.'

'Thank me later,' he says hurriedly. 'I've managed to convince Kaufmann that you've gone home for a "family emergency", but she's suspicious.'

'I only need a few more days.'

'That's all you have. Do you realise what Monday is?'

I don't need to reply.

'If you don't attend the review, you'll lose your place,' he tells me. 'Are you sure-'

The phone cuts off before I can answer, lapsing into a single tone.

I begin the long journey back to London. In my bag is the letter from my grandfather. Lefevre allowed me to keep it, saying that it was only right.

I read it again and again as the train streams across moorland and coastline. The sun glints on the distant waves. It is written in French, which is unsettling. I had no idea that Grandpa Jim was so fluent. Lefevre's wife, Helen, made a translation for me, but I stare at the original, already knowing its contents off by heart.

Guillaume, I write to you again in hope of reply. The words I offer are the same, which means that they are worthless, I know. Nothing I can say will restore what I stole from you. Only now do I begin to truly understand.

Conscience is a terrible thing, Gui. Year by year, it grows, like ink on silk, until it touches all of our actions, past and present. Had I known ... It is pointless to wish. Pointless, too, to ask for your compa.s.sion, when I do not deserve it. Yet I write once more with the words I did not have a chance to say in Paris: I am sorry.

Forgive me, please.

I remain, Jim Stevenson The night I spent on the Lefevres' sofa was a sleepless one. As the moon ghosted over the harbour, I wore out my grandfather's words, whispering them over and over: Nothing I can say will restore what I stole from you.

Those words belong to a youth, a stranger. I can't justify his actions or connect him to the old man I loved so dearly. Part of me doesn't want to read the article, wants to keep my precious memories intact, rather than have to deal with the existence of this new 'Jim Stevenson'. And yet, I have to know.

When we finally reach Paddington, I call the Newspaper Library to check that Whyke has reserved the microfilm for me. The woman on the phone is surprisingly curt.

'Miss,' she snaps when I mention the t.i.tle, 'as I told your professor when he called this morning, that reel has been reserved for research purposes. I advised him, as I am advising you, to request a copy.'

I falter. 'What do you mean, "reserved"?'

'It's being used exclusively by one of our affiliate publishers,' comes the sniffy reply. 'Like I said, I suggest you request a copy of the item you're interested in.'

'Fine.' I bite back the sharpness in my voice. 'I am requesting one. How long will that take?'

'Processing time is ten working days, upon receipt of the signed paperwork and fee.'

Furious, I end the call. This is Hall's doing. Who else would demand exclusive access to one obscure piece of microfilm exactly when I need it? The blood is racing to my head as I hammer my mother's number with my thumb. No answer. I look in my Filofax. My father's number is there, seldom looked at and dialled even less.

Gritting my teeth, I punch in the numbers.

'Can I speak to Mr Stevenson please?' I ask when the call connects. I can hear the sounds of the newsroom in the background, busy shouts and phones ringing.

'Who's speaking?'

'It's his daughter.'

I'm not even sure how my dad will react. Our last phone call wasn't exactly genial. I remember his tone as he told me I was being 'ridiculous'. It's almost enough to make me hang up.

'Petra?' My father sounds shocked and not a little wary. 'What's going on? Is everything OK?'

'Everything's fine.' I struggle to keep my voice light. 'It's about Grandpa Jim's papers.' The ones you would have thrown out, I stop myself from saying.

I can almost hear my dad ice over.

'If you're going to start on about that again-'

'No, no.' I steel myself, put on my most contrite voice. 'You were right, I shouldn't have been so possessive. I did take something of Grandpa's.'

'Oh.' My father sounds flummoxed. He'd obviously been preparing for a fight. 'Well, you should return it asap.'

'I will. Listen, I've been in London for research. That biographer, Simon, he lives here, doesn't he? I could go round to his place and drop off the papers, since I'm in town. To say sorry.'

My father agrees, probably because I'm being civil. I can tell he wants to say something more, and wonder whether he feels guilty about his behaviour, but I scribble down Hall's details as quickly as I can, tell him I have to go.

The address is for a street in Putney. I'm halfway there on the tube before my anger subsides enough to wonder what on earth I'm doing. Hall has the photograph, the Allincourt letter, but what will confronting him do? Embarra.s.s him into giving them back? Shame him into letting me take a copy? I feel slightly sick as I step out onto the street, but I force myself onward, without a plan.

The address leads me to a large Victorian house, divided into flats. There are lights on in some of the windows, the sound of water gurgling into a drain. I ring the buzzer, and after a minute I see a shape descending through the gla.s.s door. I hitch up my bag, prepared to stand my ground, but it's a woman who answers. She's smartly dressed in suit trousers and a s.h.i.+rt, her dark hair loose.

'Yes?' she says politely.

'Hi.' I grope for any excuse. 'I'm ... I'm here to see Simon?'

'From the publisher?'

'I'm sorry?'

'The publisher. He's expecting some paperwork?' She has one eyebrow raised.

I'm out of my depth already, but I take the plunge.

'That's right,' I stammer, 'I have it here.'

'I'll give it to him, thanks.' The woman holds out a hand. I step back.

'I can wait, it's no trouble, they sent me with something else that needs to be signed and returned immediately.'