The Confectioner's Tale Part 5

'The festive season is just glorious,' she said.

Gui looked at her. Her face was alight with admiration, her fine dress trailing in the puddles, her lace cuffs stained with ink. Beyond her shone the sugar cathedral. The cost of it could have fed a family like his in Bordeaux for a year. Abruptly, he turned away.

The other men were waiting in the cart outside the door. He almost ran to join them, wanting to be away from that place, from the emotion that was weighing on his chest.

'Guillaume!' Mademoiselle Clermont was smiling, hanging from the doorway as the cart began to trundle away. 'Would you like to come back next week?'

Chapter Nine.

April 1988 I'm sitting at my desk, watching the sky change colour through the rain. A page of my thesis is wedged into the typewriter, abandoned mid-sentence. The pale evening light falls upon my grandfather's photograph, propped up next to the sc.r.a.p of paper handed to me by the curator at the gallery.

During the past week I have tried to my best ignore it, but every time I sit down to write, it p.r.i.c.kles at the back of my mind, like a burr that can't be s.h.i.+fted or ignored. I have been bluffing my way through supervisions and tutorials; have barely done any work. If Whyke has noticed, he hasn't mentioned it.

I gnaw at one of my nails, already bitten down to the quick. What would Hall be doing, if he'd found the photograph instead of me? And how did he discover anything at all? I thought that I had taken all of Grandpa's correspondence, personal papers and files when the house was sold. It is all at my mum's house, neatly stacked in boxes, waiting for me to sort through it properly.

Unless ... a horrible thought creeps upon me. Quickly, I pick up the phone and dial a number from memory.

'2763?'

'Hi, Mum.'

'Petra! How are you? Everything OK?'

My mother sounds preoccupied, as though she has been laughing and I've interrupted the joke.

'Yeah, fine,' I say. 'I was thinking of coming home tonight. Will you be in?'

'Of course! Can you afford the fare?'

The question makes me grimace. My funding for the year is running out, and it has to last me another two months. I ignore the question; tell her that I'll be there for dinner.

I shove some things into a bag, feeling guilty for not mentioning the real reason behind my visit. Maybe I should have asked her about the papers straight out, whether anyone else has been to look at them, but then, she would have wanted to know why. I'm not sure that's a conversation I'm ready to have.

A minute later I'm rattling through the streets on my bike, trying to convince myself that I've got it wrong, that everything will be as I left it. Thankfully, it has stopped raining and the evening feels fresh and clear. As I pedal, some of the fug begins to drain from my head.

I'm still worrying over 'what ifs' when I reach London and change stations. The tube is thick with the smell of cigarettes and hairspray; people heading for big nights out in the capital. At Charing Cross I buy my mum a bunch of flowers, and sit with them balanced across my lap as the train slides out towards the suburbs. Eventually, the sign for Staplehurst creeps into view through the grubby window.

My mother's house is a short walk from the station, and as soon as the lights appear around the corner I feel a welcome rush of calm. I let myself into the garden and stand on the back doorstep, trying awkwardly to remove my shoes. Claws skitter and then Wilf, her dog, appears, tongue lolling, tail thumping the door and wall. He'd jump, but he's too old and arthritic, so he contents himself with hopping and leaning against my legs. I bury my head in his ears.

My mother emerges from the hallway, cheeks reddened. I give her the flowers and can't help but laugh as she engulfs me in a hug. For the next few minutes I'm inundated with news from the past month. She has been on the phone to my dad recently, she tells me. He's going to call later, from America where he's covering a story. I answer non-committally; he is the last person I want to speak to.

'Gin and tonic?' Mum asks, already getting down the gla.s.ses. 'I was about to make Simon one when you arrived, but I suppose he'll want to be off in a minute.'

I remember the phone call earlier, Mum laughing with someone as she answered.

'Who's Simon?'

'Simon Hall. He's writing Jim's biography. Your father told him about those papers you took from the study, and said that he could take a look. Simon's been sifting through them for a few weeks now. You'd know this if you called more often.'

The hint of reproach is unmistakable. I grit my teeth, trying to stay calm, even though she's just confirmed the very thing I was afraid of.

'Anyway, Simon says they're an absolute treasure trove,' continues my mum, oblivious to my rage. 'It's a good job you cleared them out, isn't it?'

'Yes, well, I need to look through them now.'

'What for?' She tops up the gla.s.ses with tonic water. 'Come and meet Simon. He's really very friendly.'

Of course, she doesn't know about Hall's talk at the university. I'm simmering with anger as she gives me the drinks, but there's nothing I can do except shuffle behind her through the house. Sure enough, Hall is sat in the dining room, at one end of the long table, my grandfather's papers spilled out before him.

He smiles as we walk in. Today, he is wearing a colourful tank top and a tightly b.u.t.toned s.h.i.+rt.

'Simon,' my mum says, 'this is Petra. She's home for a night from university.'

Hall is grinning as I juggle the gla.s.ses in order to shake his hand. It is clammy from holding a pen.

'I believe we spoke briefly a few weeks ago,' he says, 'at my talk. I would have introduced myself then, but you were in rather a hurry to leave.'

'I had a tutorial,' I shoot back. My mum laughs, hurrying off to the kitchen to fetch some nibbles.

I put the drink down in front of him and look at the papers. I want nothing more than to s.n.a.t.c.h them up and hide them away. Hall takes a sip and smacks his lips in appreciation.

'I understand it's you I have to thank for saving these from your grandfather's house.' He reclines in his chair. 'I could never have hoped for such an extensive personal collection. It's proving fascinating.'

'What are you hoping to find? Dirt?' I can feel my face burning.

'My readers certainly aren't interested in plain facts,' he is still smiling, 'there are already plenty of those about your grandfather.'

'You can't-'

'Petra,' he interrupts, looking up at me with a degree of compa.s.sion that I almost believe, 'I realize that this must be difficult for you, but I'm only expanding upon things that are already there. The formative experiences of your grandfather's life, good and bad.'

'You mean this so-called scandal you've found?'

'Nothing "so-called" about it. If you were listening in my talk you would've heard me say that I have proof.' He taps a pile of papers before him. 'Thanks to you.'

I stare at him. I've had an idea, although I suspect it might be a very stupid one.

'You're talking about Ptisserie Clermont,' I say slowly.

Hall's face tightens.

'Ptisserie Clermont?' He is trying to keep the interest out of his voice, but I can tell he's bluffing. 'What's that?'

'Just a place I saw in a photograph once.' I take a sip of my drink.

Hall is on his feet. 'A photograph? Where? I haven't seen one.'

I shrug, relis.h.i.+ng his confusion.

'Can't remember.'

It is Hall's turn to be angry. He knows that I'm lying, and leans across the table towards me, features twisting. My mother appears in the doorway with a bowl of crackers and he pulls back sharply. Fuming, he shrugs himself into a blazer and collects his notebooks.

'Thank you so much, Mrs Stevenson,' he gushes to my mother. 'I must get out of your hair now. Petra, I'm sure we'll speak again.'

Then he is gone, and all that is left is the buzzing of nerves in my head. I desperately want to look through the papers on the table, but my mum is steering me into the kitchen. I realize that I am ravenous, and soon, a plate of sausages and b.u.t.tery mashed potato eclipses all other worries. My mum has opened a bottle of red wine and the kitchen is warm and cosy.

I almost forget about Hall and the photograph and my grandfather as I sit, sleepy and full in front of the television. The phone rings before midnight; it is my dad. My mum tries to hand me the phone, but I just shake my head, escape upstairs. I hear her sigh as I walk away. I know she thinks I'm being stubborn, but I still can't bring myself to speak to him.

We were never friendly after the divorce, and weren't even that close before. He's a journalist, and was always away from home, but it all got worse when he started working for the tabloids. I didn't really understand at the time. I only knew that Grandpa disapproved, that my mum was unhappy and that my dad was around less and less.

Then came the fights, the divorce proceedings and the long afternoons at Grandpa Jim's, when he would pour me hot chocolate, read to me and make me feel safe. Mum told me recently that my dad was jealous of how close I grew to Grandpa Jim, but that isn't enough to make me forgive him.

My old room is exactly as I left it. I breathe in the smell of home, falling into the worn cotton sheets.

I must have gone to sleep like that, because I'm still fully dressed when a scratching at the door wakes me. Blearily, I check my watch. Two a.m. Wilf stands outside, tail wagging furtively. He isn't supposed to come upstairs, but we turn a blind eye. Thirsty, I plod down to the kitchen for a gla.s.s of water. Wilf follows and settles into his bed. I kneel on the floor for a while, smoothing his ears and the white hairs on his muzzle until he's too sleepy to follow me.

Pa.s.sing the dining room I catch sight of the papers and creep in to investigate. Hall has been arranging them into a ring binder: that act alone is enough to make me angry all over again. I peer down in the darkness. The folder lies open where he left it. The spine has been marked Paris. Inside, there are plastic wallets filled with loose sheets, what look like letters written in faded blue and black ink.

I scan through the top pages. Strangely, they are all in my grandpa's own handwriting. They repeat the same sentences again and again, but in different orders, topped with different dates. I flick past. A few sheets later I find another letter, in writing I don't recognize, elegant and heavy. Halfway down the page, a word that could be 'Clermont' leaps out at me.

I try to decipher the old-fas.h.i.+oned script, but my eyes are itching with tiredness. Carefully, I remove the letter and slide it into my own notebook for safekeeping.

Upstairs, the duvet is warm. By the time my head touches the pillow, I am ten years old again, and roll untroubled into sleep.

Chapter Ten.

December 1909 Dear Maman, I cannot speak too much of it now, but I have found extra employment outside of the railway which I think may be of great benefit. I am sorry that I cannot return home for Christmas ...

Gui paused, the pencil hovering. He missed his mother, but in truth, he would not be sad to miss Christmas. He would send her as much money as he could spare, and she would go to her relatives with a few extra coins in her purse and stories of her son, hard at work in the city. He hoped it would be enough.

He had been back to the ptisserie four times. There was always something new to see, or smell, new sounds like the hiss of scalding cream or the crack of brittle sugar. And, of course, there was Mademoiselle Clermont. The last time he had been there, the kitchen was quieter, only a few chefs proving dough at the workstations, her father nowhere to be seen. She had made them all hot chocolate again, and had stood with him on the step to drink it.

He had not known how to behave, what to feel, but he had made her laugh, remembering aloud the state he had been in when they first met. Her smile, as much as the hot chocolate, had left his body tingling with warmth.

Yet the long nights were taking their toll. He was often tired in the daytime, and made mistakes in the forge, which did not go unnoticed. His wages were docked, and the handful of centimes he received from Luc were not enough to cover the difference, leaving him short.

'Come with me to St Malo,' said Nicolas, as he prepared to leave for Christmas. 'My aunt's a miserable old trout, but at least you'll be fed.'

It was a tempting offer. The dormitory would be empty for the two days of holiday and Gui barely had enough money for one meal, let alone a companionable drink. He walked Nicolas to the main platform, along with several other young men. They were merry, freed from their work for a rare day of enjoyment.

He let the others board the train, perching where they found s.p.a.ce, among the freight or in the corridors. He stood alone on the platform, despite Nicolas's protests. Eventually, his friend gave up and waved goodbye, as the running boards slid away and the train streamed out of sight.

Alone in the city. He could not explain, even to himself, why he had stayed behind. He felt as though he had been split in two; that there was another Guillaume du Frere who had boarded the train and was even now sharing liquorice and idle talk with his friend.

This Guillaume walked aimlessly. His steps took him away from the station buildings towards the river. It was not beautiful here, it was the gut of the fish rather than the rainbow scale or s.h.i.+mmering eye.

The drizzle that had been threatening all day increased its pace, as if it too hurried breathless towards home. In a matter of seconds he was soaked through, but it did not slow him down. Rather, he saw himself as part of the landscape, cold as the stones of the embankment. A motor car rumbled past, tyres flinging up grit. A man and woman shrieked as they dodged out of the road and tripped into the nearest cafe.

Music and laughter gushed from the doorway as they elbowed their way inside. Faces were red and merry away from the unforgiving winter winds. Breath fogged the windows, made the place radiant. Gui could have been one of them, used his few coins to buy a drink and a place at the bar, but he did not. Instead, he stepped onto the Quai de la Tournelle. Rain melted the grey afternoon darker still, and Notre Dame floated across the river like a scribble of chalk. He trudged a few feet further, until a shape rose from the gloom like an upturned boat.

A bouquinist was packing up, oil cape raised against the driving weather. He was the last of the booksellers on the stretch. He struggled with rheumatism-gnarled fingers to stack the volumes into the wooden chest. It was slow work. Forcing his own numb hands to cooperate, Gui bent to help him, grasped an armful of books and placed them in the trunk. Perhaps in summer, the man would have growled from behind his pipe and told him to leave off, but the rain was getting heavier and the cheap ink would soon run.

Then he saw it. A drawing like Clermont's cathedral, but smaller, dissected into sketches like a puzzle. Words upon a page: sugar, paste, almonds ... The book's cover was missing, but even so, it would be more than he could afford. Before he knew what he was doing, the book had found its way beneath his jacket. He thrust the final handful of papers at the old man and turned away, heart thundering in his throat. A noise behind him could have been a shout, but the wind was too loud to hear clearly. He risked a glance over his shoulder: the man was staring after him, but was soon lost to the weather.

Gui broke into a run, arms wrapped tight around his wet coat and the precious object beneath. In the hammering rain he felt elated. His steps became leaps, over puddles and onto the pavement, where he bowed absurdly to a carriage horse that stood in the gutter. By the time he reached the station quarter, the shops were closing.

His coins bought him a bottle of red wine, poured hurriedly from a vat. He had no money left for food, but the wine would help him forget that. He stood to one side as a woman elbowed past, arms and baskets weighed down with groceries. A drainpipe belched its load over the pair of them and the woman gasped, grappling for her hat. One of her packages slipped unnoticed into the mud.

The thought of an empty belly was enough to send Gui stooping for it like lightning. He hurried away before she realized what had happened, fingers releasing the sodden wax paper to find a slab of cheese. He told himself that feeling guilty wouldn't fill his stomach, and shoved it into his pocket, whistling a Christmas hymn as he squelched back to the empty dormitory.

By the time night fell he was huddled by the coal stove, wrapped in a blanket. His clothes hung dripping onto the wooden floor. Wind and rain rattled the roof, but he was cosy. The book lay open before him, waiting to be explored. A loose sheet shoved hastily into the middle contained the t.i.tle page. He smoothed the worn paper with careful fingers, entranced by the letters. They were grand, ornate even, surrounded by curls and ill.u.s.trations.

He had never owned a book, beyond his catechism for school. This one was by a Monsieur Carme, who described first-hand the creation of wonders: palaces, temples, even ruined castles, all constructed from sugar. An architect, Gui realized with a jolt. There were many words he did not know, but read them over and again until he almost understood.

Monsieur Carme was his companion that Christmas night. He turned the pages deep into the early hours, his head filled with images of construction and confection, explained by the voice of a master at his craft.

Early the next morning, he awoke to the hush of rain upon the roof. For long minutes he lay still, taking in the rare, melancholy luxury of waking alone. Somewhere, it was Christmas morning. His mother would be trudging the muddy track of a country town to visit their relatives without him. He rolled over in his coc.o.o.n of blankets. The book was on the floor, pages splayed. He must have fallen asleep reading it; he stroked a page lightly in apology and turned to where he had left off.

Eventually, church bells began to chime nearby and Gui's surroundings clarified themselves: cold, damp dormitory, an empty bottle, a rind of cheese. Monsieur Carme's lessons were not for the likes of him, yet he could not help but smile as he tucked the book carefully beneath the hard pillow.

He drank water, ice-cold from the pitcher, to quell the hollow in his stomach. He would have to venture out to scrounge a meal. Sometimes, the churches gave out food on Christmas Day. He should feel ashamed, he knew, begging for alms, but since no one knew him here, he did not see the harm.

Most of his clothes were still too wet to wear. He scrabbled into his trousers, wincing as the clammy fabric caught about his legs. His spare s.h.i.+rt was threadbare, but dry, so he pulled it over his head.

In another boy's trunk he found a waistcoat, worn red velvet, and in another, a scarlet neckerchief. Their owners would surely not begrudge their use on a holiday. He combed at his short hair with his fingers, and stood in front of the mirror to survey the outcome.

He had grown thinner, he noticed with frustration, no doubt due to the long nights of work. He slapped some colour into his cheeks and pushed his cap to a jaunty angle worthy of Nicolas. With his wind-tanned face, his tawny hair growing back and the bright red scarf, he looked more gypsy than good Christian, but that did not stop him from stepping out into the Christmas morning.

In the cold, he retraced the previous day's route. He did not pause when he reached the quay but ventured onto the bridge. His steps led him to the back of Notre Dame, where great b.u.t.tresses propped up the bulk of the chapel. The rain had slowed to a fine drizzle, chilling his skin and sending him hurrying into the cathedral. A service was taking place and wors.h.i.+ppers filled the pews, radiating their heat. Candles blazed hundreds of them and the light was so golden that it was hard to believe in the grey weather outside.

He slipped into a back pew. Here, the people were like him, with chapped fingers and patched clothes, never quite warm enough. The rich took their places nearer to the front, in their velvet and fur.