The Confectioner's Tale (8 page)

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 title page. He smoothed the worn paper with careful fingers, entranced by the letters. They were grand, ornate even, surrounded by curls and illustrations.

He had never owned a book, beyond his catechism for school. This one was by a Monsieur Carême, 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 Carême 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 cocoon 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 Carême’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 shirt 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 buttresses 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 worshippers 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.

Gui sat quietly and listened. He had never paid much attention to his prayers as a child, but the presence of others was comforting; murmuring in unison with them made him feel less alone.

Soon, the service drew to a close and he found himself in a crush of people eager to leave, to return to their hearths and Christmas toasts. He stepped into the aisle only to be shoved aside by a wealthy man in leather gloves. He swore and turned angrily to confront the man, only to come face to face with familiar blue eyes.

Gui dropped his gaze and stepped back, shame flooding his stomach. Mademoiselle Clermont was staring at him. An older woman took her arm and hurried her away. Gui kept his head lowered until they were gone, then inched his way along with the rest.

Outside, the congregation evaporated onto the streets. An enormous fir tree stood solitary in the square, its little tin ornaments clinking in the rain. He stood under its branches to look up. Water dripped through the thick needles, and he closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of greenery.

‘Guillaume?’

Mademoiselle Clermont was standing a few feet away, blinking at him through the rain.

‘What are you doing here?’ he asked without thinking.

She hurried under the shelter of the branches and raised her face veil.

‘I should ask you the same.’ She gazed at the sheet of water on the stones. ‘I assumed you would have gone home for Christmas. Bordeaux, did you say?’

He jammed his hands in his pockets, for warmth, he told himself.

‘Yes, Bordeaux.’ He paused. ‘It is a long way.’

‘What of your family? Won’t they miss you?’

‘There’s only my mother now. I sent her my wages. It will mean that she’s comfortable, I hope.’

The rain continued to fall on the square, reaching them in fat droplets that smelled improbably of deep forest.

‘I am sorry,’ he said awkwardly after a while, ‘about earlier in the church.’

‘No, I am to blame.’ She sighed, voice fading. ‘I forget …’

Her skin was pale, almost translucent against the heavy fabric of her high collar. It reminded him of tempered glass. Impulsively, he wanted to take her hand, to run with her from the rain into a crowded bar, see her laugh again. He would order a jug of wine and they would sit close together, watching the passers-by, growing warmer as they drank.

‘Would you …?’ he began.

Her eyes were fixed ahead; he followed her gaze. A carriage stood at the edge of the pavement. A man was lingering on the step, waiting for her to board.

‘I must go,’ she stammered, ‘but I hate the thought of you having a gloomy Christmas. Please, take this.’

From a tiny bag on her wrist she produced a coin. It shone against the suede of her glove and told Gui how she saw him: poor and dirty, with ill-fitting clothes, coal dust ingrained beneath his fingernails. To his anger and shame he felt hot tears gathering in his eyes as she placed the coin in his hand.

He stared at it, knowing that she was doing the same. He knew he should thank her, tried to say the words, but could not. Then he was running, out into the freezing downpour, back towards the grey side of the river, where coins were scarce and where a woman like Mademoiselle Clermont would never care to venture.

Chapter Eleven

April 1988

I board the train feeling glum. I’ve come away from my visit home empty-handed, or as near as. Mum caught me, when I was halfway through packing up Grandpa’s papers. I tried to explain about Hall, about the photograph, but she told me that I was being ridiculous, that they weren’t mine to take.

Technically she’s right; they’re part of Grandpa Jim’s estate, of which my dad is the executor. Grandpa never got round to changing his Will before he died, and so my father has full control, even though they barely spoke. Apparently, he has given Hall permission to read and use whatever he wants. I argued with my mum about it, but in the end I could see she was getting upset, so I backed down, had no choice but to leave them where they were on the table.

Of course, she didn’t know about the letter that was already in my notebook. I pull it out, excitement overcoming my guilt, and start to read:

Jim
,

I was sorry to miss you last week in Paris. I was in town for all too short a time, and my business did not permit me to linger.

I did, however, have the good fortune to acquire a copy of
The Word,
and your article, before departing the city of light for the dull
landschaft.

What a scandal! You must have had your nose to the ground, or were you lurking in the corner, scribbling away under cover of rum baba? I cannot believe you did not witness the event first-hand, so vivid were your descriptions, especially of the illustrious M. Clermont and his sorry apprentice: ‘shaking the young Bordelais the way one would a pup’. Marvellous.

I need not tell you that you will go far, dear boy, for I know you harbour ambitions above and beyond the penny sheets. If ever you need introductions in London, do not hesitate to use my name. I will take the liberty of making a few enquiries among the literati; your observations on the social quagmire that is Paris would make for fascinating reading in a more robust form than the dailies.

I shall be sure to notify you by telegram when I am expected to return to France, so as not to miss another meeting, although thanks to your most thorough coverage I hear that P. Clermont is closing its doors. I shall have to find another place to indulge my sweet tooth! Rest in peace, Clermont’s!

Until then, I am yours, &c,

L. Allincourt

I nearly spit the coke that I’m drinking all over the letter and have to apologize to the man sitting next to me as I recover from a coughing fit. Eyes streaming, I peer at the name again. L. Allincourt.

Lionel Allincourt was arrested in 1915 for high treason. He had been passing information to Germany for years, a huge blow for the Foreign Office, where he held an influential position. It’s something every history student reads about. He killed himself in prison, or was killed, before a trial could take place. I search for the date on the letter: June 1910. Less than five years earlier.

I start to feel a bit sick. An original letter, from L. Allincourt, and I’ve been toting it around in my bag with the rest of my notes. The coke roils uncomfortably in my stomach. Hall will definitely notice that it’s missing.

Caught between horror and exhilaration I stand in the middle of Charing Cross, staring at it. Grandpa Jim knew Allincourt – knew him well, from the sound of the letter. My grandfather must have moved amongst high society then, in Paris, one way or another. The scandal certainly seems to have taken place amongst the upper classes; it
must
be the same one that Hall is investigating. No wonder he couldn’t resist.

An odd chill prickles the back of my neck. It’s clear that whatever happened, it happened at Pâtisserie Clermont. The photograph of the girl comes instantly to mind, the painting, and the thing that scares me most, my grandfather’s handwritten plea:
Forgive me.

By the time I unlock the door to my room, a plan has formed. All I need to do is find a copy of the newspaper mentioned in Allincourt’s letter,
The Word
, and read the article for myself. In my preoccupation, I almost miss a note, scrawled on the pad that hangs next to my door.

Hi P
, it says in a messy, spiky hand.
Came round this morning but you’re not in. Sorry haven’t caught up for a bit – lab’s been crazy. Pub tonight? Al x

The pub is quiet on a Sunday evening. I lurk in an alcove near the open fire, flick through the newspaper someone has left on the table. It isn’t long before I push it aside in disgust. My dad’s name glares at me from the byline of an article about a famous actress’s drug addiction.

A gust of cold air ushers Alex in. I wave him over, pointing to a second pint next to my own. He grins back, unwinding a scarf as he heads across the sticky carpet. It’s a tradition of ours to hide out in one of the locals, rather than braving the chaos of the college bar.

Cass teases me mercilessly about Alex, no matter how many times I tell her that we’re just friends. We met when his housemate dated one of mine for a while. I think they were trying to set us up. Nothing ever happened, but I can’t help but smile whenever I see him, with his permanently untidy brown hair and his terrible taste in T-shirts. He’s in the second year of a Physics Ph.D. Neither of us have a clue what the other one is saying when we complain about our research, but we always end up laughing.

‘Got you a lager,’ I say as he sits down. ‘If you’re quick, it might still be cold.’

‘Thanks.’ He sinks into the chair with a mock groan and takes a sip. ‘And where have you been? I came by but you were out. On a Sunday! I was going to buy you a bun.’

I make a face. ‘Sorry, I was visiting my mum.’

‘Thesis progress on a scale of one to dismal?’ he asks, eyeing me shrewdly.

I run my hand through my hair. I haven’t brushed it today and must look a state, but with Alex, it doesn’t matter.