The Confectioner's Tale (21 page)

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 compassion, 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 title, ‘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? Embarrass 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 glass 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 shirt, 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.’

‘He’s in the shower at the moment,’ the woman says a little doubtfully. ‘Do you want to come in?’

She leads the way up a dark staircase into a flat at the front of the house. It’s a pleasant place, a kitchen–living-room jammed with squashy sofas and books. In another life, perhaps, Hall and I might have been friends. Somewhere in the flat, water is running. I still have no idea what’s going to happen when he sees me.

‘How is his work going?’ The woman leans against the kitchen worktop. The briefcase that Hall was carrying in the library sits open on a chair. If she would leave me alone, just for a second, I could search it.

‘Er, great, all on track,’ I improvise, trying to peer into the case.

‘That’s good.’ She smiles. ‘He’s been under so much pressure recently. I suppose you know about the granddaughter, making waves, trying to steal his research?’

My stomach flips with fear and anger.

‘Are you all right?’ she asks. ‘You look a bit flushed.’

‘Fine,’ I manage, scanning the exposed contents of the briefcase.

Then I see it. Amongst the papers is an inch of handwriting I recognize as Allincourt’s. The sound of running water stops.

‘That’ll be Simon out of the shower. I’ll tell him you’re here before he walks in naked or something. What did you say your name was?’

‘Anna.’

As soon as she’s through the door I’m lunging for the papers. It’s all there: the photograph, the letter, the slip of paper from the gallery. Clipped to them is a page of bullet-pointed notes. I see a reference to
The Word
written halfway down the paper and shove the whole lot into my jacket. There are voices from the other room, questioning tones, a door slamming.

‘He said he didn’t know that anyone called Anna worked there,’ the woman says as she enters, ‘but he’ll be right out.’

‘I’m an intern,’ I tell her a little wildly, certain that she’ll see the flash of white beneath my jacket. ‘Actually, I think I’ve brought the wrong paperwork, picked it up by mistake. They’ll have to send the right version tomorrow.’

I make a break for the door, heart thudding against the pages.

‘Well, if you wait a second—’ she tries.

‘Thanks, but I’ve got to run.’

I don’t care if it’s suspicious; I have to get out of there. In the hallway a door opens to my right. I catch a flash of a figure in a dressing gown before I’m skidding down the stairs in my haste to reach the front door.

There are voices behind me. I won’t make it onto the road without being seen, and my brain is so sizzled on adrenalin that without a second’s hesitation I clamber over the side of the steps that lead to ground level, landing heavily in a pile of rubbish, old branches and brambles.

The wall is slimy and damp with weeds, but I press against it as the front door flies open above me. I can just make out the back of Hall’s head as he begins to swear.

‘She’s taken them,’ he barks. ‘Why the hell did you let her in?’

‘She said she was from the publisher,’ the woman sounds equally peeved. ‘Maybe she just got nervous.’

‘Was she blonde?’ he demands.

‘What?’

‘Blonde, slim, in her twenties?’

‘Why?’ The woman’s tone has taken on a hostile edge. ‘Who is this girl, Simon? Why are you so angry with her for turning up here?’

‘Carol, wait, I told you …’

Their voices fade as the front door is slammed. Grinning stupidly, I zip the papers into my bag.

Chapter Thirty

April 1910

That morning, the bells woke Gui, louder and more vocal than he had ever heard them. Rather than pulling the blanket up over his head and shivering at the thought of his night-cold clothes, he rushed to the window, shunting it open to let in a blast of morning.

His head jutted out from the roof and he felt like an animal emerging from a burrow. There was life in the air. Gui wondered if Jeanne was leaning through her curtains. Raising his head, he let out a crow, pictured it bouncing from wall to wall across the city to greet her.

There was scraping from along the roof, and Isabelle’s head also appeared, tousled from sleep.

‘I thought it was a dog, howling at the moon,’ she called, ‘but here I find you.’

‘Happy Easter!’ he laughed. ‘Did I wake you? I am sorry, I couldn’t keep it in.’

‘Don’t apologize, it’s rare that I’m woken by such a happy sound.’

Back in his room, Gui lit the fire and balanced a kettle on the tiny stove for hot water. He enjoyed his morning routine. With his few belongings stowed neatly, the mouse-hole room was almost cosy. Some of the hot water went into the ewer, some into a battered tin pot with a sprinkling of tea leaves.

He washed carefully, paying particular attention to his nails. Today was the day of Pâtisserie Clermont’s grandest event: the Easter celebration. The kitchens had been a hive of activity. Monsieur Clermont had been present every day, experimenting with ingredients to create an opulent centrepiece. Everyone in the cloakroom speculated about what it would be, gossiping like washerwomen. One junior chef had even started a pool for those who cared to place money on their opinions.

Whatever it was, Gui knew it would be magnificent. He had spent a joyous day melting chocolate and moulding it into shapes, another making batches of the delicate pastry he was developing such a talent with. He sincerely hoped that Maurice would be in charge of his section and that they would be able to work together to create something wonderful.

Locking his door behind him, Gui heard a rustle. It was Isabelle, smiling.

‘We used to do this when we were children,’ she said, patting something onto to his back. ‘It’s supposed to bring you luck.’

Gui’s fingers found thin paper, cut into the shape of a fish, fixed to his jacket with a pin.

‘I don’t believe I’ll need it,’ he said and grinned.

Although the sun had barely risen, the omnibus at the bottom of Rue de Belleville was crowded with worshippers, all heading to the larger churches for a special service. Eventually, he gave up his seat to an old lady and walked. By the time he got to work, the cloakroom was packed. The night shift had just come to an end, and apprentices jostled for space, balancing cups of coffee and cigarettes, trying to find a seat before they returned to the kitchens.

Maurice was napping in one corner, an apron spread over his face. Gui reached out to sneak a few sips from the steaming cup of coffee that sat forgotten by his elbow.

‘Don’t even think about it, you southern rat,’ the chef’s voice rumbled from below the apron. ‘I need that like I need my blood. That bastard Melio’s gone and caught himself the black lung. They’ve put me on his shift.’ Wearily, Maurice removed the garment and blinked up at Gui. ‘Going to need your help today, lad.’

‘You mean …?’

‘Welcome to the next rung. You’ll be my commis chef for the day.’

‘What will we be doing?’ he pressed.

Maurice tapped his nose mysteriously.

‘All will be revealed. I just hope you remember how to handle choux.’

A clock chimed in the hall, and the chefs filtered back to work. Hurriedly, Gui shed his clothes and crammed the white hat over his hair, grown back into its thick curls. When he reached the kitchens, he found the entire staff being ushered through the empty café towards the front of the building.

‘What’s going on?’ he whispered to a neighbouring apprentice.

The boy was trying with great fervour to push a tuft of hair beneath his cap. ‘A photograph,’ he said breathlessly. ‘Josef announced it this morning. It’s for the newspapers.’

Eyes wide, Gui began his own frantic grooming, thankful that he had paid extra attention to washing that morning. Outside, the sun was growing warmer. It was the first true spring day, breezy and cool yet brimming with the possibility of a new summer.

A man with clipped-up sleeves was struggling with a tripod, while another assembled something that looked like a big, black accordion. Gui felt a rush of excitement, remembering the last time he had had his likeness taken, in La Rotonde with Jeanne.

Josef instructed them to line up, to cross their arms one over the other in the same fashion, and to await the photographer’s instructions. No smiling, he commanded solemnly, no monkey business or japes, or he would know about it. They had been standing silently for ten minutes when Monsieur Clermont finally arrived.

Gui’s heart quickened its pace; Jeanne was accompanying her father.