The Confectioner's Tale (14 page)

For a while, I wasn’t sure whether I even wanted to. I’d been driven by the desire to prove Hall wrong, to show him that my grandfather was a good man, that there was nothing shameful in his past. But now I suspect that isn’t true. Cass tried to persuade me to let it go; she reminded me that I wasn’t responsible for my grandfather’s actions or reputation, that I had my own life to think about.

She is right, of course, but at the same time, the thought of Hall unearthing the secret that Grandpa Jim kept for so many years turns my stomach. In the end, I realize that I have already made up my mind: if anyone is going to find out what happened that summer in 1910, it’s going to be me.

Which means breaking the promise I made to Kaufmann: that I would give up the research and concentrate on my thesis. I battle my conscience into submission. It can’t be helped. I will never be able to persuade her to sign the request form for the Newspaper Library, but hopefully, I’ll be able to slip it past Whyke.

My dress flaps around my ankles as I climb the stairs, summer cotton with a flower print. I’ve made an effort, for once, to appear neat and well prepared, but now all I am aware of is how the buttons strain across my chest. Of course, Whyke won’t notice. I could walk into his office naked, wearing a bearskin, and he’d only ask me if I wanted tea.

‘Ah, Petra,’ he flaps when I arrive, searching for his notebook, ‘your end-of-year review has been scheduled. Two weeks from today, like we thought. You might want to make a note of the date.’

My stomach drops as I scribble down the appointment. Whyke is still talking; I force myself to listen.

‘… by this stage I’d normally expect to see a final draft, but I imagine Dr Kaufmann will take care of that.’

I nod, after the decision I’ve made, I feel more than a little ill at the idea of another meeting.

‘I thought we could use our time on practical things, like your bibliography,’ Whyke says, writing in his notepad with the wrong end of a pen. He is more preoccupied than usual, but I decide to take the plunge.

‘There’s one last bit of research I’d like to check out beforehand.’ I try to sound casual as I pull out the request form. ‘It wasn’t available when I checked, but the library said you’d be able to order me a copy of the microfilm.’

I surreptitiously scrub my hands dry on the dress as Whyke grabs the form and starts to tick boxes. He has reached the signature line when the biro pauses, hovering above the paper.

‘Remind me, have we talked about this source before? What is it, exactly?’

‘It’s an English-language newspaper from Paris,’ my heart is hammering. ‘There’s an article about a society scandal that I want to read.’

Whyke is looking at me closely across the coffee table. I realize that I have made the same mistake many people do in underestimating him.

‘Which scandal?’ he demands.

The breath dries up in my throat as I struggle for a reply. My carefully constructed answers vanish.

‘This is about the Clermont place again,’ he accuses, watching me steadily, the form poised on his lap. There is a tightness in his tone I’ve never heard before.

‘Yes,’ I have to admit, trying to keep my voice firm, ‘but it’s important, Professor. I have to find out.’

‘You’ve been told,’ Whyke barks, ‘time and again, that pursuing anything to do with your grandfather is a bad idea. Which part of that do you not understand?’

‘
You
don’t understand the significance of this,’ I say hotly. ‘Some of the things that I’ve found—’

‘Treasures from your grandfather’s collection?’ he interrupts. ‘How am I meant to substantiate that?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean, where is your proof? Whatever it is you’ve discovered, how am I meant to support you? I don’t even know if these things exist.’

Now, more than ever, the memory of the emptied bag makes my hands clench.

‘But you’ve seen the photograph,’ I say, ‘I showed it to you, and I can get the other things.’

‘Then where are they now? Petra, I’m concerned about where these sources are coming from. People will assume that you’ve—’

Abruptly, Whyke pulls himself back. The unsaid words hang heavily between us.

‘That I’ve what? Made it all up?’

‘I never said that.’

I can’t stop the angry tears from flooding my eyes as I collect my bag. Whyke is on his feet, looking severely alarmed. At any other time, I might have laughed, but now I push past him.

‘Petra, wait.’

‘No, I’ve had enough of this. I shouldn’t even be here. Tell Kaufmann she was right.’

I take the stairs at a run, until it’s clear that Whyke has not followed me. The tears are spilling over. I swipe them away furiously, feeling empty and sick.

The walk back to college is a blur, but during it, I come to a conclusion. My room is too quiet, cluttered with folders and books, evidence of a year’s wasted effort. Slowly, I shuffle some of the papers together. When the phone shrills into the silence, I almost don’t answer.

It’s my father. I have to stop myself from laughing bitterly. We haven’t spoken for over a month, and he chooses this moment to call. I answer in monosyllables when he asks how I am. If I sound strange, he doesn’t mention it.

‘Dad,’ I take a breath, steel myself to say the words:
I’m quitting university.

‘Petra, did you take any of those papers?’

His words slap me out of my daze.

‘What?’

‘Simon’s just had a word with me,’ he continues, I can tell he’s annoyed and trying to hide it. ‘He says that you told him to stay away from your grandfather’s papers.’

‘I did,’ I tell him flatly. ‘That didn’t stop him stealing them from me.’

‘You’re being ridiculous. I’ve told Hall that he has complete access, and that you won’t be bothering him any more. Is that understood?’

‘Tell him I know what he’s doing, and that I want them back,’ I snap and slam down the receiver.

I’m shaking with anger and emotion. Cass is out of town for the day, and apart from her, there’s only one person I want to see.

Alex meets me later that night in the pub. I hug him tightly when he walks in, hold on for longer than usual. He stands motionless for a second, but then squeezes me in return; his arms warm around my back.

I can tell he’s feeling the pressure of deadlines, too. He looks more rumpled than ever, hair sticking up at all angles, a coffee stain on his T-shirt. I can’t bring myself to load my problems on him straight away, and listen instead as he complains about lab work, about supervisors and the upcoming review. I know he’ll be fine, and tell him so as we nurse our pints.

‘Sorry for the rant,’ he tells me with a wry smile, ‘I came here to see you, not to talk shop all night. What’s going on?’

I tell him about Hall, and Kaufmann and Whyke, about the decision I made that afternoon.

‘I’ve been kidding myself,’ I say slowly, ‘this whole year, I’ve been falling behind. Now it won’t be long before Whyke tells the faculty about me, if he hasn’t already, and Kaufmann will back him up; she doesn’t think I should be here either. They’re right, Al.’

Alex snorts dismissively. ‘If tutors reported every highly strung student, there wouldn’t
be
a faculty.’

I smile weakly. Alex rolls his eyes.

‘Look.’ He pokes me in the arm. ‘Whyke never said he thought you should quit, neither did Kaufmann.’

‘You just don’t want me to leave,’ I accuse, nudging him with my shoulder.

‘Of course I don’t,’ he declares, and takes a hasty gulp of his beer. ‘I’d—’ He hesitates, mouth open to say something. My stomach does a flip.

‘You’d what?’

His face drops into a grin. ‘Get bored without these weekly doses of drama.’

I try to swallow a sudden wave of disappointment as he pushes my drink towards me.

‘See the rest of the term out, at least, P. How you spend it is up to you.’

Chapter Twenty-Two

February 1910

The hours flew past. Ebersole’s team made two more religieuses, one for evening service and one to be delivered to a party. Maurice sweated and swore over multiple pans of coloured sugar icing that Ebersole deemed ‘too gaudy’, ‘too insipid’.

Finally, the colours were correct. Gui peered down into the pan and realized they were just as Monsieur Carême described them: soft, tender lilac and rose pink. When the tower of éclairs was finished, Ebersole looked as though he was going to cry. The religieuse was a masterpiece of pastel shades, ornate swirls of vanilla cream and gold-leaf decoration; but one of the other apprentices joked that it resembled a matron swathed in tight satin.

Ebersole looked devastated. ‘They are right,’ he said, ‘it looks like an old whore.’

‘Clermont’s is a business my friend, and we must cater to requests,’ Maurice placated. ‘The Comtesse wanted it to look just so. I’m sure she will be overjoyed.’

The kitchen began to empty out. Maurice beckoned to Gui and pointed up at the clock. It was almost eight. Gui felt lightheaded; he had eaten nothing that day but an end of bread. It seemed a thousand years since he had walked into the café, suitcase in hand.

‘Are we finished?’ he asked as their group plodded into the communal cloakroom. The younger chefs pulled hats from their hair, talking noisily. Maurice lounged in one corner with Ebersole.

‘Not yet,’ he mumbled around a cigarette. ‘Got to clean the stations and prepare for the morning. Go and get the supper, will you?’

‘Supper?’ Once again, Gui was bewildered.

‘The boys at the ovens keep a few loaves going for breaks. Go and ask them.’

‘Be sure to ask for the best white loaf!’ one of the younger apprentices called after him.

Gui dodged between bodies in the kitchen. The ovens took up one whole wall; thick, black doors in the tiled walls, secured by brass handles and bars. He approached the least hostile-looking of the workers there.

‘Can I get the supper for break?’ he asked hesitantly.

The boy ignored him. His pristine white uniform was soaked with sweat as he rearranged shelves in the hot oven.

‘It’s for Ebersole,’ Gui pressed. ‘They told me to ask for a white loaf.’

Now he had the boy’s attention.

‘A white loaf, was it?’

‘That’s what they said.’

‘The
best
white loaf?’

‘Yes.’ Gui felt his face growing hot. ‘The best white loaf. Can I have it, please?’

In a flash his arms were pinned behind him. The first chef grabbed his neck, forcing his head into the open oven. Sweat burst on his forehead, dripping away in an instant hiss. Then the heat was gone and he managed a gasp of air before his vision was filled with white. Powder clogged his nose and mouth and he choked before he was released. Spluttering, he stumbled back, swiping at the flour that clung to his damp skin and stung his eyes. A warm loaf was dumped into his arms.

The cloakroom erupted into laughter when he walked back in. His throat was sticky with flour and humiliation. Gui had heard horror stories about hazing from some of the men who worked the railways. He’d never experienced it himself, so, he decided, he was probably overdue.

‘Here’s your supper,’ he wheezed.

Maurice caught the bread with a laugh and set about pulling off large chunks.

‘Guillaume, we all had to endure it. Welcome to the kitchen.’

Ebersole was guffawing quietly as he chewed, cigarette on lip.

‘There’s a washroom through that door,’ Maurice said. ‘You might want to use it before you eat.’ He caught Gui’s glance towards the younger apprentices, who were still doubled up with laughter. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll guard your share.’

‘Thanks for supper, snowdrop!’ they catcalled.

Gui grinned and curtsied primly to them as he passed and they clapped him on the shoulder and wiped their streaming eyes.

The group had dispersed by the time he returned, dripping with cold water. Good to his word, Maurice handed him the end of the bread. It was smaller than the share the others had received, but he took it without complaint. He forced himself to eat slowly, but soon it was gone and his stomach remained hollow.

‘Still hungry, eh?’ Maurice asked, watching him chew.

‘Not at all,’ Gui lied, thinking of the unwanted pastries he had swiped earlier.

‘I saw you sneaking about the refuse sack,’ the older man said. ‘Hand them over.’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’ Gui looked away, his cheeks burning. Embarrassment was one thing, yet he knew from experience that hunger would feel far worse.

‘You have at least two burned pastry cases in your pocket,’ Maurice was merciless, ‘or did you think it wouldn’t be noticed? Come now, or it’ll be Josef you have to explain to.’

Slowly, Gui took out the pastries. They were only a little singed at the edges, and still looked delicious to him. In one movement, Maurice swept them from his hand and kicked them under the bench. Gui’s jaw clenched at the thought of the waste.

‘There now,’ the older chef continued, brushing crumbs from his sleeves, ‘why would you want those old things anyway?’

There was a napkin in his hand. Gently, he unwrapped the top folds. Within was an éclair, one of the many they had created that afternoon. This one was covered in chocolate, gleaming darkly. He set it on the bench.

‘I thought you might be interested in this.’ Maurice’s voice was nonchalant, but a smile played around his mouth. ‘How are you supposed to learn if you don’t know what you are making? Now, I’m outside for a breath of air. We’re due back in five minutes.’

For a full minute, Gui couldn’t even bring himself to pick up the pastry. It looked so small, lying on the white napkin, yet in the café itself, one of these would cost him a whole day’s wages.

Tentatively, he brought it to his mouth. He sniffed deeply, breathing in the mingled richness of baking: of butter and sugar. His teeth sank into one end and sweetness filled his mouth, the chocolate cream airy-light and smooth against his tongue. A shock of bitter cocoa came next, irresistible and bewitching. It was unlike anything he had ever eaten, a strike of joy to his senses. He tried very hard to save a piece, just one mouthful for later, to remind him, but in the end, that too disappeared.