Lady P sniffed. Finnegan whimpered in sympathy and licked her nose dry.
‘Good doggy,’ Lady P cooed. ‘But enough of my sad and sorry tale. Life goes on and here I am, snuggled up with my charming new friends, eating chocolate and trying to solve a whole different crime.’ She sniffed one last time, then lifted her chin. ‘So, Margrit Milk is the pattern. But why steal Margrit Milk chocolate? Why not dark chocolate, or white chocolate, or an assortment of all three? Variety can be quite satisfying, you know.’
Freja shrugged. ‘Margrit Milk is made from the milk of a prize-winning cow. Perhaps the thief is fussy about quality.’
Clementine nibbled the petal off a praline flower. ‘But all Swiss chocolate is delicious!’
Freja bit into a chocolate acorn, relishing the way the firm chocolate shell crushed between her teeth to release a burst of creamy vanilla goodness. ‘It is good, isn’t it? But everyone is crazy about Margrit Milk. And since the burglaries, it’s become even more popular.’
‘Perhaps Lucerne is on the cusp of Margrit Milk mania,’ said Tobias. He leaned forward and took a praline flower from the chocolate box. ‘Like tulip mania in seventeenth-century Holland. Tulips were in great demand and short supply, so they were fetching ridiculous prices. Tulip bulbs were used instead of money and gold. Some tulips cost as much as a house. Nowadays, the simplest of thieves could not be bothered to steal a tulip bulb, but in 1637, one might have gone to great lengths to get hold of a tulip or two.’
‘So you think Margrit Milk might be headed the same way?’ asked Lady P, laughing.
‘Stranger things have happened,’ said Tobias.
‘Perhaps the woman in the fur coat thinks Margrit Milk mania is about to break loose,’ Freja murmured. Then, turning to Clementine, she explained, ‘There was a German woman in Leckerbissen this morning who wanted everything that was made of Margrit Milk. She was so disgusted at how little was left that she threw her money at Vivi and stormed from the shop in a rage. She didn’t even stop to look at François-Louis’ chocolate doll’s house and everyone was stopping to look at the doll’s house.’
‘A chocolate doll’s house?’ asked Clementine.
‘It’s amazing,’ said Freja, snuggling into her mother’s side. ‘Next time we go on an outing, I’ll take you to see it.’
Clementine didn’t answer, so Freja went on. ‘There are five storeys, all made of chocolate, and every room is filled with the things you’d find in a real house. There are chocolate teacups, chocolate pot plants, and chocolate clothes hanging in the chocolate wardrobe.’ She giggled. ‘There’s even a chocolate roll of toilet paper.’
Clementine squeezed her shoulder.
‘But my favourite part is the attic,’ said Freja. ‘It’s full of stuff the chocolate family has used over a lifetime of fun and love and happiness. Old furniture. Broken toys. Outgrown bikes.’ She hesitated for a moment. ‘Memories . . . Treasures . . .’ She looked up into Clementine’s face and whispered, ‘Maybe even some secrets.’
They lay there, motionless and silent for some minutes, until Clementine spoke. ‘Okay, my precious girl,’ she whispered. ‘It’s time.’
CHAPTER 22
Secrets and sadness and gladness and love
Tobias pulled the little treasure chest out of his backpack and placed it in Clementine’s thin white hands. A piece of wood, blackened and charred, crumbled off one end and fell onto the white sheet.
Clementine ran her fingers over the scratched timber and the rusty metal bracings. ‘Oh, Tobby,’ she whispered. ‘Just look at it, so battered and worn. Like us when we were young.’
Freja wrinkled her nose. How could a child be worn? Old people were worn. Housemaids and coal miners were worn. But not children.
Tobias held out the key — small, solid and rusty — towards Clementine. His green eyes, usually so jolly and full of life, turned dim and grey, like the mould on a forgotten loaf of bread. He didn’t babble. He didn’t tug at his ears. He didn’t even say, ‘Here you go, old girl.’
Clementine took the key, poked it in the lock and turned it around.
‘Ready?’ she asked.
‘No,’ said Tobias.
‘Yes,’ said Freja at the same time. She blushed a little, because she already knew what was hidden inside. But, of course, she didn’t understand why the items had been deemed treasure. They’d seemed so ordinary.
‘Should I just take a little snooze?’ asked Lady P. ‘Give you some privacy?’
‘No,’ whispered Clementine. ‘I think it might be good to have another friend at hand right now.’
Lady P nodded, but did not smile.
Finnegan sighed and flopped his head onto Lady P’s shoulder.
Clementine opened the lid and pulled out a folded piece of paper, yellowed and covered with the large, crooked writing of a small child. Freja recognised it — the story of Hero Boy and Reskew Girl. Or rather, the first part of the story. The end, Freja knew, was missing.
Clementine cleared her throat and began to read aloud: ‘Hero Boy and Reskew Girl. A really true story by Grape Smith. Once upon a time, there was a beautiful girl. Her name was Anne. Astonishingly, at the very same time there was a plain but powerful boy called Grape. This was real lucky for Anne because she was in trouble. “Help! Help!” she cried. “I am in trouble. Double trouble some might say.” Grape was in trouble too. But as we already know, he was very powerful. His trouble was that . . .’
Clementine looked up, because the writing had ended. But Tobias, with barely a second’s hesitation, continued the story, reciting it from memory: ‘His trouble was that he was being taken away to an enchanted kingdom by a real mother and father. The enchanted kingdom would have warm beds and fruit and toys and love and as much paper and pencils as Grape liked. It was a perfect place to go. But once he was there, he would not be able to help Anne. Anne would be all alone in the House of Forgotten Children. “Help! Help!” cried Anne. “The witch is here and she is coming to punish me.” Grape looked at the mother and father who were about to take him away to the enchanted kingdom. He looked at Anne and the wicked witch. Anne was beautiful but weak. The witch was ugly but strong. Grape ran forward and kicked the witch in the shins with great power. The witch screamed and limped away. Anne was safe. Grape had saved the day. But the mother and father were disgusted. They shouted, “Boys who kick do not belong in the enchanted kingdom!” They left without Grape. “I’m sorry,” said Anne. “I’m not,” said Grape. The end.’
Freja stared at Tobias. Two large, wet tears dribbled down his cheeks and splattered onto the knees of his trousers.
Freja’s chest ached with pain and confusion and love.
She looked to Clementine. Her face was blank, but her eyes and nose were streaming.
Even Lady P was weeping.
‘Grape Smith,’ Freja murmured. Then, turning to Tobias, she shouted, ‘You’re Grape Smith! It’s not your friend. It’s you!’
Then, taking Clementine’s cold, thin hand in hers, she whispered, ‘And you must be Anne.’
Clementine sobbed and nodded and sobbed some more.
Slowly but surely, the real meaning of the story dawned upon Freja. ‘The story is true, isn’t it?’ she asked, her eyes welling up with tears. ‘It’s a story from your childhood . . . An unhappy childhood . . .’
Clementine nodded and whispered, ‘An unhappy childhood in an orphanage.’
And then everyone was howling — Freja, Lady P, Finnegan, Clementine and, worst of all, Tobias.
It was some time before the story could be explained. But after many tissues, two visits from the nurse and an entire box of Leckerbissen chocolates, they all felt ready to go on. Tobias and Clementine shared the telling of their story.
‘It was my idea to change our names,’ said Tobias. ‘It was a way of escaping, of forgetting who we really were. The orphanage was a miserable place —’
‘But we won’t go into the details,’ cut in Clementine. ‘I have tried so hard to keep th
at sorrow from touching your life, Freja. I was even scared for you to know Tobias because he shared that sad and sorry place with me . . . I thought knowing him might expose you to some of the misery of our past and I wanted your life to be filled with only sunshine and happiness. It was a silly decision, the wrong choice. Tobias should always have been a part of your life. I see that now, but . . .’
‘But nothing!’ cried Tobias. ‘That’s done and dusted, Clem. No point crying over spilt milk and missed opportunities. We’re all here now, together, just as we should be.’ He smiled. ‘Back to our names, eh?’
Clementine nodded. She took a deep breath and continued. ‘We never got fruit at the orphanage. Fruit was a magical thing, something we only read about in books.’ She frowned. ‘I didn’t taste an orange until I was sixteen. Imagine that, Freja! The closest I got to fruit was a box of raisins Tobias stole from Miss Frecklington’s office one Easter.’
‘Miss Frecklington — the witch!’ said Freja.
‘So we decided to name ourselves after fruit,’ said Tobias. ‘Precious, magical fruit.’
‘My name was Anne. Just Anne.’ Clementine’s voice dropped to barely a whisper. ‘Those of us who were orphaned as babies didn’t have surnames. But I decided to call myself Clementine. Clementine Peachtree.’
Freja smiled. ‘It was a brilliant choice, Mummy Darling Heart! It suits you perfectly.’
‘My name was Tobias Smith,’ said Tobias. He chuckled. ‘I changed my name to Grape Smith, but Clem said that I’d be teased, even in the grown-up world. So, when I turned thirteen, I went back to Tobias and changed my surname to Appleby.’
‘Grape Smith,’ said Freja. ‘At least it’s better than Banana Smith!’ She giggled, glad for a touch of fun amidst this sad and sorry story.
‘And neither of you were adopted?’ asked Lady P.
Tobias shook his head. ‘Just the one close call,’ he said. ‘The story of Hero Boy and Reskew Girl tells it fairly accurately.’
‘You should have gone,’ whispered Clementine. ‘You should have taken your chance at happiness.’
Tobias climbed down from the end of the bed, sat beside Clementine, wrapped his arm around her shoulders and pressed his head against hers. ‘How could I be happy leaving you behind? I have never regretted that kick, old girl. Not for a single second.’
Clementine smiled weakly. ‘Truth be told, Tobby, nor have I.’
‘I bet the witch did!’ said Freja, and they all burst out laughing.
‘I don’t mean to be rude,’ said Lady P, ‘but that would have to be the ugliest treasure chest I have ever seen! Battered and scratched and charred.’
‘We rescued it from a fire,’ said Clementine. ‘Whenever someone new arrived at the orphanage, their possessions were taken and anything thought worthless was burned.’
‘How cruel!’ gasped Freja.
‘Yes,’ agreed Clementine, ‘but I truly don’t think it was meant that way. It was thought better for children to forget their lost families and get on with their new lives.’
‘But having our own things, even small things, did matter,’ said Tobias. ‘So we took the chest, then proceeded to fill it with secret treasures.’
Freja thought of her scrapbook, filled with the simple but precious collection of seeds, feathers, ferry tickets, maps, menus, word lists and photos she had collected over the years. She smiled. ‘Those small things are memory keepers. Reminders of who we are and where we have been.’
‘Exactly!’ cried Tobias.
Clementine and Tobias watched in silence as Freja took the objects, one by one, from the treasure chest and laid them out on the bed. Clementine gathered six of the items together — a tiny white seashell, an acorn, grey with age, a smooth round pebble, a small brown feather, a second stone shaped roughly like a heart and the remains of a pressed flower. Its crispy dried petals had all broken off and fallen to the bottom of the treasure chest.
‘Nature,’ said Clementine, poking the objects. ‘My consolation. My escape. I wandered away from the orphanage, into the fields and the forest, every chance I got. I climbed trees, looked under rocks, stuck my hands down burrows, waded through brooks. And sometimes I just sat, to watch and listen and learn, but also to feel the peace, the beauty, the freedom of nature.’ She closed her eyes and was silent for so long that Freja thought she had fallen asleep. But then she opened her eyes and picked up the acorn. ‘Remember Squizz?’
‘Our hero.’ Tobias chuckled. ‘Squizz was an abandoned baby squirrel Clem found in the forest.’
‘I brought him home and we hid him in our pockets,’ said Clementine. ‘We fed him acorns and food scraps and he grew strong and cheeky until, one day, he ran away into the forest. We never saw him again.’
‘How sad,’ sighed Lady P.
‘Oh no,’ said Clementine. ‘He truly was our hero.
He’d escaped the orphanage and gone out into the big wide world to live a full and happy life on his own. This acorn, the treat he left behind, became a symbol of hope for Tobias and me. It reminded us that the weak could become strong. That there was a brighter life out there for everyone.’ She pressed the acorn into Freja’s hand and closed her fingers around it.
Tobias picked up a candle stub. ‘This was the real treasure for me,’ he cried. ‘Stolen candle stubs gave me magic powers.’
‘Magic powers?’ asked Freja, wrinkling her nose.
‘Absolutely!’ cried Tobias. ‘Candles meant that I could read and write after lights out.’ He waved the stub in the air like a magic wand. ‘When everyone was asleep, I could escape into the world of words, all on my own. There were no chores, no boring lectures on how to wash behind one’s ears and chew with one’s mouth closed, and no bullying. Just words taking me away to wonderful imaginary places.’ He rolled the candle stub back and forth between his fingers, gazing at it as though it was a rare and precious jewel. ‘Nature was Clementine’s escape. Stories were mine.’
‘But there’s something missing,’ Clementine wailed. ‘Oh no, Tobby! Our precious photos are lost!’
‘It’s okay,’ said Freja. Blushing, she reached into her satchel and drew out the strip of three tiny black-and-white photos. ‘Sorry. I found them and wanted to keep them close.’
Taking the photos, Clementine pressed them to her heart. ‘Best day of my childhood,’ she whispered. ‘The day we ran away to the Faraway Fair. Tobby found a ten-pound note on the pebbles at the beach and, even though we knew we should have handed it in, we spent it.’
‘Good choice!’ cheered Lady P. ‘Nothing wrong with an orphan having a bit of fun, even it does mean breaking a rule or two.’
‘And we spent the money wisely,’ said Tobias. ‘Fairy floss, the Ferris wheel and the photo booth.’
‘Perfect choices,’ agreed Freja.
‘We were going to have a fun day at the fair, then stow away on a boat and sail across the seas to freedom and adventure,’ said Clementine. ‘But Miss Frecklington caught up with us and . . . well, let’s just say that even the astonishing powers of Hero Boy couldn’t get us out of that pickle!’
Freja now selected a lock of hair and held it to the light. There were two types of hair — one golden and straight, the other brown and curly.
‘A promise,’ said Clementine. ‘Bits of our hair knotted together as a symbol that we would always be family. Always love each other.’ She pressed her hand to Tobias’ cheek and gazed so lovingly into his eyes that Freja found herself holding her breath.
Was this the moment where the big secret would come out? The one where Clementine would tell her that Tobias was really her father?
Freja waited, her fingers and toes twitching. She waited and waited, but nobody spoke. Finally, unable to keep still any longer, she reached forward and picked up a crystal, the one that had helped her to solve the crime in Rome.
‘Aaah,’ sighed Tobias. ‘The crystal of celebration!’ He took it and tossed it up and down in his hand. ‘This is the only treasure not from our childhoo
d.’
‘Then why is it in the treasure chest?’ asked Freja.
‘It’s from the chandelier that hung from the ceiling of Miss Frecklington’s office,’ said Clementine. ‘Nine years ago, we returned to the orphanage to watch it being demolished.’ She smiled, her thin face suddenly full of life and joy. ‘Tobby ran into the rubble, dodging bulldozers and wrecking balls, to grab a crystal.’
‘A reminder,’ said Tobby, ‘that all bad things come to an end.’
‘Was I there?’ asked Freja.
Tobias gave a little start, dropping the crystal on the bed. He pulled his pencil from behind his ear and peered at it, seeming suddenly fascinated by how blunt it had become.
Clementine bit her lip.
‘Nine years ago,’ said Freja, ‘I would have been one. Just a baby. Did I go with you to watch the demolition?’
‘Oh, look, Tobby,’ cried Clementine. She reached forward and picked up an ancient mint chocolate, its faded wrapper still entirely intact. ‘Do you think it’s still edible?’
Tobias shrugged.
‘There’s only one way to find out,’ said Clementine, waving the chocolate in the air.
‘Are you sure, old chap?’ asked Tobias.
‘Well,’ said Clementine, ‘we were going to open it and eat it when one of us was adopted by a family, as a kind of celebration. But that didn’t happen, did it?’ She looked from Tobias, to Freja, then over at Lady P and Finnegan. ‘But as far as I can see, we have a beautiful family right here, Tobby. You, me, our precious Freja and two extras who I’d be proud to call my own.’
‘Oh, golly gosh,’ whispered Lady P, and she began to weep all over again. Her bandages were becoming quite a mush.
Clementine passed the little package ceremoniously to Tobias. Tobias held it in the air, tore open the wrapper and held up the chocolate mint. The chocolate was aged to a pale ashen colour, but Tobias still broke it into quarters and distributed the pieces between the four humans. The paper wrapper he gave to Finnegan.
The Girl, the Dog and the Writer in Lucerne (The Girl, the Dog and the Writer, #3) Page 14