The Confectioner's Tale (13 page)

They moved towards the back of the café. Gui couldn’t help but notice that they traversed the outside edge of the room unobtrusively, rather than taking a path straight through the middle, but still, many pairs of eyes followed them.

‘The people here are such horrible gossips,’ Mademoiselle Clermont whispered, viewing the room with mild disgust. ‘It may be wise to use the tradesman’s entrance in future, Guillaume.’

Her voice was kind, but still he felt the barb that lurked within her words. Swallowing, he changed the subject.

‘Your ankle, does it still hurt?’

To his surprise, she broke into a smile.

‘It will mend. Luckily, it is not the same one I twisted previously, when I fell at the station.’ She shot him a sidelong glance and he felt his face turn crimson. He braced himself for the accusation, but it did not come.

Warmth emanated from her gloved hand into the crook of his arm. They passed another table and Mademoiselle nodded in greeting to its occupants.

‘Might I ask,’ she continued quietly, ‘what was the nature of the agreement you made with my father and Monsieur Burnett? When I saw you in the study with them, I worried that they might have assumed the worst.’ A blush crept up her cheeks, but she held her head straight.

‘They offered me employment here.’ Gui thought it best not to mention the conditions. ‘A reward, I think, for making sure you did not come to harm. Your father has not mentioned it at all?’

‘We are not on speaking terms.’ Her face was tight.

‘Is he angry with you?’

‘Yes, and I with him.’

‘You did get yourself into trouble,’ Gui ventured, ‘going out alone in the flood like that.’

‘Yes, I did. But I only wanted to help. Father does not seem to realize that.’

‘I’m sure he was simply scared for you.’

Even as he said it, Gui remembered Clermont’s words to Burnett, about a daughter being more trouble than many sons. Mademoiselle must have been thinking similar thoughts, for she only sighed and shook her head as they stopped before a door marked ‘
Privée
’.

‘This leads to the back entrance hall,’ she told him. ‘Take the door towards the kitchens and then knock at the first room on the left. That’s the office. Ask for Josef.’

‘Thank you, Mam’selle.’

‘Good luck, Guillaume.’

She removed her hand. Nerves rushed in to take its place and he wished, irrationally, that she would go with him.

Chapter Nineteen

April 1988

The last thing I wanted to find on my return to Cambridge was a message from Professor Kaufmann. The official summons was waiting in my pigeonhole, bearing my name in her neat handwriting.

On Monday morning, I trudge through town, terrified of being late. I linger in the marketplace, chewing at my already bitten nails. It is busy, as always. A bright sun shines determinedly through the chill breeze, pushing in from across the fens. There are people here lounging, drinking coffee on outside tables, thick mugs at their elbows and cigarettes in hand. I wish I was one of them.

Miserably, I turn into Kaufmann’s college. It is one of the oldest and grandest in the university. I walk across the main court, blind to the imposing architecture. I know I should be grateful to be granted time with one of the department’s most respected professors, but all I can feel is dread, and a certainty that this is not going to go at all well.

Kaufmann’s office is in the cloister. The walls here are permanently cold and shadowed. I hunch my denim jacket tighter and brave the old wooden stairs. The creaking announces my arrival long before I reach the top step; a crisp voice calls for me to enter before I even raise a hand to knock.

Kaufmann’s room, by contrast, is bright. It smells of lilies, is impeccably organized. The books are housed neatly in tall shelves, and the professor sits at a coffee table that is empty save for a folder of papers and a copy of my thesis. I grimace inwardly. Even from a distance it looks scruffy, the type misaligned on the pages.

‘Petra,’ she greets, without standing up, ‘take a seat.’

I sink too heavily into her sofa. Kaufmann places her glasses upon her nose. She is in her early forties, elegant and polished, her fair hair swept back into a coil. I push my own untidy bob behind my ears.

‘I …’ I begin.

‘Thank you for these.’ She speaks over me steadily, picking up my pages. ‘I read them this morning. I was wondering if you were confused, however, since you have only sent your most recent chapters. I was expecting the entirety of the draft.’

I wedge my hands between my knees, trying to control my nerves.

‘That is it, the draft.’

She looks at me in mild surprise.

‘This,’ she asks, ‘is all you have?’

‘Professor Whyke and I—’

‘Professor Whyke is not responsible for whether you complete your work on time,’ Kaufmann replies, leafing through the pages, ‘or whether you take it seriously.’

‘I am taking it seriously,’ I say, rather too defensively.

Kaufmann flips the chapters onto the table before me.

‘From the state of these, I disagree. This isn’t undergraduate work, Petra. I am not going to baby you through what should be second nature by now. You know that this isn’t good enough.’

‘I’m working on something new.’ I force myself to stay calm. ‘No one has documented it before, and there’s already interest from the historical community.’

‘Ah, yes,’ Kaufmann rests her elbow on the arm of her chair, ‘Whyke mentioned. A new surprise about your grandfather.’

When I am silent, she sighs.

‘Petra, I have been asked to work with you, but I shall only continue to do so if we make one thing clear between us. I don’t say this to be cruel, but you must know that far more talented researchers than yourself were not accepted as doctoral candidates by the university.’

I clench my teeth. As much as I want to hate this woman, there’s a part of me that knows she’s right.

‘Whatever it was that prompted the department’s decision to award you a place—’

‘You mean my grandfather?’ I interrupt.

‘
Whatever
it was,’ she says firmly, ‘you have been given a remarkable opportunity. One that you seem determined to squander.’

‘You’re wrong,’ I protest, but my voice is wavering.

Kaufmann leans forward and picks up her journal, calm as ever.

‘Then prove me so. We shall start at the beginning.’

Chapter Twenty

February 1910

‘Can you read?’

Gui nodded, the stiff collar scraping his neck. For the first time in his life he was wearing an entire outfit of new clothes. White trousers, white jacket, apron, hat, all starched and pristine. They did not belong to him, Josef – the kitchen manager – told him severely, but were property of the pâtisserie and to be treated as such.

He may dirty the apron whilst working, but never the sleeves or the front of the jacket. Each apprentice had two uniforms, which were laundered thrice a week. If he forgot to include his clothes for laundering, his pay would be docked until the next laundry day. Pay would also be docked for dirty nails, dirty hair, muddy shoes or an incorrectly tied apron.

He was to start in the kitchen with the newest apprentices. He was not to touch the ingredients or any of the produce, but would observe and assist by collecting pans, moulds and utensils, washing and tidying after the more senior chefs. He was
never
to go into the pâtisserie itself unless absolutely necessary.

‘You are the lowest rung of the bottom ladder,’ Josef told him, demonstrating the correct way to wrap the apron around his waist. ‘Keep your head down, your eyes open and maybe you’ll learn something.’

There was no unkindness in his voice, but no warmth either.

‘You have one month to prove that you can fit into the kitchen and work hard. Do you understand everything I’ve said?’

Gui nodded, although he had no idea how he was going to remember it all. A foreign land, a strange, bright world, he thought as Josef whisked him into the kitchens, and his heart leaped at the spectacle of it all.

If possible, the place was busier than he had ever seen. There was no sign of the flood that had threatened so recently; everything looked spotless. The workers, too, in immaculate white, were moving so fast it seemed like a dance, chefs weaving between each other, hands finding the objects they needed from memory. Gui could see no one standing still. He had anticipated a leap into the unknown, but he felt utterly lost.

‘Service runs straight through the day,’ Josef continued, steering through the activity like the prow of a ship. ‘The afternoon is a busy time and you will have to be on your toes, because the next sitting begins,’ he glanced up at a huge clock hanging at the far end of the kitchen, ‘in ten minutes. A roster of breaks will begin at six. You will be in the last group. Ebersole,’ he snapped at a balding chef nearby, ‘new boy.’

Gui turned to ask what he would be doing, but the large chef was gone, striding towards the front of the room, examining workbenches as he went. The chef he had called Ebersole barely glanced up. He was leaning in close to a tray, inspecting row upon row of what looked like fat pastry fingers. An apprentice followed behind, flipping the fingers over onto their backs. Two more young chefs stood by, conical bags clutched at the ready. Ebersole frowned over the last tray and shook his head.

Gui found the tray thrust into his arms. There was nothing wrong with the pastries, so far as he could see, apart from the fact they look darker than the others. Ebersole barked something at him in German and moved away, clapping the younger chefs into action. No one was watching; Gui’s shaking hand strayed towards the pastries, his stomach clamouring.

‘Do not even think about eating them,’ a low voice rumbled in his ear. ‘Put them in the refuse sack. It’s by the door.’

The man who had spoken swept past. Gui caught a glimpse of a lean face, a waxed brown moustache and a forehead that shone with perspiration. Reluctantly, he approached the refuse sack. It was full of similar examples of near-perfect baking, muddled together with scraps of paper, eggshells, spoiled cream.

Quick as a flash, he snatched up two pastry ends and shoved them into a pocket, tipping the rest away. Back at the workbench, two apprentices were moving from opposite ends, using metal nozzles to fill the pastry cases with fluffy cream. The chef with the moustache stood in the middle, holding a wide pan of slick, brown chocolate.

Ebersole lifted the filled pastries, floated them in the chocolate and whipped them out, swiping off the excess with his thumb. The process was repeated until thirty pastries lay glistening on the trays, all in decreasing sizes, all perfect. A completed tray was shoved at him. The scent of cocoa was overpowering, and it was all he could do to stop himself from stuffing one of the confections into his mouth.

‘Take them to the cold room,’ the helpful chef whispered.

When he returned, Ebersole had vanished and there was something of a lull.

‘Thank you,’ Gui said to the man with the moustache. ‘I don’t know any German.’

‘Neither did I. And he isn’t German, he’s Swiss. Try not to get it confused.’

‘I will, I mean, I won’t.’

‘I’m Maurice,’ the man added, offering the back of his wrist. His hands, Gui noticed, were coated with chocolate. ‘No time to talk now, just try to follow the others. We’re making a religieuse, nothing too fancy for a Wednesday.’

Before he could say anything else, Ebersole was back, flanked by apprentices, trays balanced up their arms. The process began again. His arms were piled with rejected pastries; those deemed acceptable were covered with a lighter shade of chocolate until there were just as many as before. Returning from the cold room, he found a hushed group around Ebersole. The man was shaping circles from a soft, creamy clay substance with a tiny cutter wheel.

‘
Schablone
,’ he demanded under his breath.

Nobody moved. The apprentices’ faces were ashen as they stared at each other. Ebersole looked up in frustration.

‘
Schablone
, the stencil, we are making a religieuse, no?’

‘He means the mould we use for the headpiece,’ Maurice hissed. ‘Monsieur Clermont commissioned a new one a few weeks back, but I have no idea where they put it—’

Before he could finish, Gui was racing away towards the back of the room, towards the dresser he had piled with boxes, seemingly so long ago.

‘Moulds, Goebel …’ He scanned feverishly, picturing his trips to and from the handcart, until he saw a little box with the Goebel stamp, ‘religieuse’ scrawled across it in pencil. He was back before the other apprentices had moved.

Suspiciously, Ebersole glanced inside the box, extracted a small metal mould. Gui received one hard look.

‘
Bon
,’ barked the chef.

The confection took another hour to complete. Maurice told him that the different coloured pastries were called éclairs and were flavoured with chocolate and coffee. They were balanced upon their ends in a circle until they spiralled upward in rows. A fat, round pastry went on top like a head, crowned with Ebersole’s sugar work in the shape of a winged headdress.

‘It looks like a nun!’ Gui exclaimed.

Maurice gave him an odd look. He was balancing a card amongst the rows of piped cream. The word ‘Clermont’ looped in gold upon a green background. As soon as he let go, two apprentices lifted the religieuse onto a trolley.

Gui watched it disappear through the doors into the pâtisserie.

‘What happens now?’ he whispered to Maurice.

‘Now, lad,’ the older man told him, wiping his forehead on his apron, ‘we do it all again.’

Chapter Twenty-One

May 1988

Five o’clock. My shadow lengthens as I cross the courtyard. Inside, it is cool and quiet. I give my eyes time to adjust after the glare of paving stones and river. For once, I am not late. In my bag is a request form from the Newspaper Library. After the business with Hall, I never had a chance to go back and read the article.