The Remarkable Secret of Aurelie Bonhoffen

by Deborah Abela

  Mayor Bog opened his mouth but nothing came out, apart from a small, embarrassing squeak.

  Crook slowly rounded Bog’s desk until they stood nose to nose. ‘Oh, and I always get what I want.’

  It was some time after Crook had gone that Bog’s legs carried him from his office, down the stairs of the council chambers, past secretaries and fellow councillors who tried to catch his attention, into crisscrossing streets and muddled alleys, until he found himself in the square where his statue was being carved.

  It was late in the afternoon and the sculptor had left. The canvas tied around the statue had been torn off and flung to the ground. The face was splattered with mud. Bog slid his hand into his pocket and took out a handkerchief. He dipped it into a puddle and tried to wipe it off, leaving muddy streaks instead. He gave up and slumped onto a wooden bench.

  Bog stared at the fine figure of a statue who was slim, had youthful cheeks and the solid, broad shoulders of someone Bog felt he could trust.

  ‘How did we get here, Finnigus?’ He sighed. ‘And what do we do to get out?’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Uncle Rolo’s Letters

  Aurelie walked towards the school gate when she saw Principal Farnhumple thundering towards her like a floral-print tank. She stopped toe to toe with Aurelie, looming over her with nostrils flaring.

  ‘You have been very clever, haven’t you, Miss Bonhoffen?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Farnhumple?’

  ‘Wriggling out of an opportunity many children would have been thrilled and grateful to have accepted. Making a mockery of … of … what is right and good.’

  The principal leant down until her nose hovered just above Aurelie’s. ‘And I don’t know how you procured the services of a fancy London lawyer, but it won’t be enough to stop you from being thrown out of this school if you don’t start behaving in an appropriate manner.’

  Aurelie met Mrs Farnhumple’s rage with her own resolve. The edges of her lips lifted ever so slightly. ‘I’ll be the example of impeccable behaviour, Mrs Farnhumple.’

  The principal’s left eye narrowed, searching for even a hint of insolence in the answer. ‘Yes. Well, I’ll be watching you, Aurelie Bonhoffen. Just one move, that’s all it will take.’

  She clipped back across the playground, through parting waves of children, stopping only when she saw Rufus Bog.

  ‘Rufus,’ she sang, ‘how nice to see you. Please give my best regards to your father.’

  Aurelie watched Rufus flinch. ‘Yes, Mrs Farnhumple.’

  ‘And that I hope he is in the very best of health.’ Her smile was so wide it almost flew off her face.

  ‘Yes, Mrs Farnhumple.’

  Sniggard and Charles waited for her to leave before they sauntered over to Bog, glee plastered over their faces like chocolate cake.

  ‘Please give my best regards to your father.’ Sniggard employed his most pompous accent. ‘Because we certainly wouldn’t want to lose his favour now, would we?’

  ‘Indeed not,’ Charles added. ‘Especially as I am so in love with Mayor Bog. Ooooh, I’m quite giddy at the idea.’

  Sniggard and Charles collapsed into their own whorl of laughter.

  ‘Imagine that, Bog.’ Sniggard struggled to get his breath. ‘Mrs Farnhumple as your mother.’

  Sniggard and Charles shoved each other back and forth as Rufus looked to Aurelie. She lifted her hand and offered a single wave. Rufus waved back … right when Sniggard looked up.

  ‘Let’s go and say hello to Miss Bonhoffen.’ Sniggard smiled.

  ‘No, leave her …’ Before Rufus could stop him, Sniggard grabbed Charles by the sleeve and dragged him towards Aurelie.

  ‘Kids are saying you were taken away from home.’ Sniggard was smaller than Aurelie, but his smugness always made him seem bigger. He walked around her, circling her. ‘What do you expect when you think lighting sticks and throwing them in the air is fun?’

  Aurelie ignored Sniggard. It was the one thing he couldn’t stand.

  He clenched his jaw and leant into Aurelie’s face. ‘Maybe next time mummy and daddy will teach you some more normal habits.’

  Rufus gripped his hands at his side and opened his mouth, just as Aurelie turned to him and said, ‘Are you done with these two yet?’

  ‘The Golden Child has spoken.’ Sniggard rubbed his hands as the clanging of the school bell began drawing students to class.

  ‘Come on, fellas.’ He walked off but stopped when he noticed Rufus wasn’t with them. ‘Bog? Are you coming?’

  ‘I think I am done with them,’ Rufus said to Aurelie.

  ‘Good.’ She smiled. ‘I always knew you were smart.’

  ‘Is it true you were taken away?’

  ‘Yep, but I’m back home now.’

  ‘Nothing bad happened to you, did it?’

  ‘No, I …’

  Sniggard marched back. ‘Bog? What are you doing?’

  Rufus looked directly into Sniggard’s eyes. ‘Actually, my name’s Rufus, and I’m staying here.’

  ‘With her?’

  Rufus nodded. ‘Her name’s Aurelie and, yeah, I am.’

  Sniggard laughed. ‘Can’t you find anyone better to be with?’

  ‘Actually …’ Rufus thought for a bit. ‘No.’

  Sniggard, for the first time in his life, had nothing to say. His face was a look of confusion and then anger as he shouldered his way past Charles.

  ‘That was good.’ Aurelie’s smile seeped into Rufus so that he smiled too.

  ‘I’ve been meaning to do it for a while.’ He laughed. ‘It felt better than I thought. I’ve also been meaning to … say thanks.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘The compass. I never said thank you.’

  ‘I knew you’d like it.’

  ‘No one’s ever given me anything like it before. Anything that old, I mean.’

  ‘You don’t have to keep it if you don’t want it.’

  ‘No, it’s good that it’s old. I like it.’

  As the schoolyard cleared, Aurelie’s smile disappeared when she noticed Valentina waving to her from outside the school gate.

  ‘Who’s she?’ Rufus asked.

  ‘It was her house I was taken to.’

  ‘Do you want me to come with you?’

  ‘No, I’ll be fine. I’ll see you inside.’

  Rufus joined the last of the straggling kids going into class.

  ‘Good morning, Aurelie.’ Valentina looked uneasy. ‘I know you probably don’t want to see me, but I needed to make sure you were okay.’

  ‘I am now.’

  ‘Good.’ Valentina squeezed her purse tightly. ‘I want you to know that it isn’t right that people are separated from the ones they love, and I’m sorry it happened to you – and that I didn’t do anything to stop it. My sister and the Society mean well, they always do. They have certain ideas on families and raising children.’ She paused. ‘How is your family?’

  ‘They’re fine. They’re better now that I’m home,’ Aurelie said.

  ‘Yes, of course they are. How are your uncles?’

  ‘They’re good. Rolo’s as feisty and stubborn as usual.’

  ‘Still.’ Valentina smiled. ‘Can you say hello to him for me?’

  Aurelie nodded.

  Valentina reached into her purse and handed Aurelie a card. ‘If you ever need anything, please call.’

  ‘Aurelie!’ Rolo was in the marquee with Rindolf putting some final touches to a wooden cut-out of a painted castle three times Aurelie’s height.

  ‘It looks almost real,’ Aurelie said. ‘Is the performance nearly ready?’

  ‘We had a rehearsal this afternoon, and I think it’s just about perfect.’

  ‘Dudley and the others are so excited to be part of the show again,’ Rindolf said.

  Rolo shook his head. ‘They haven’t stopped talking about it. How was school?’

  Aurelie sat on one of the tiered benches. ‘Mrs Farnhumple wasn’t too happy abo
ut what happened. Thinks our family knows some fancy London lawyer.’

  ‘That’ll be the first time Frank’s been called fancy.’ Rindolf smirked.

  Aurelie paused. ‘I saw Valentina.’

  Rolo and Rindolf’s paintbrushes slid to a stop. Rindolf let his brush hover in the air, a grey drip falling onto his shoe.

  Rolo resumed painting.

  ‘Valentina, you say?’ Rindolf looked across at his brother. ‘Did you hear that, Rolo? She saw Valentina.’

  ‘Mm, I heard.’ He concentrated on dipping his brush in the paint tin.

  Rindolf leant forward so he was only inches from his brother’s face. ‘You don’t have any questions you’d like to ask Aurelie?’

  ‘About what?’ Rolo shook his head as if he was being annoyed by a fly.

  ‘About Valentina.’

  ‘What would I want to ask?’

  ‘You can be an old mule sometimes.’

  ‘I’m a mule?’

  ‘Yes! The most stubborn, mulish, pig-headed, ill-tempered old –’

  ‘She asked about you,’ Aurelie interupted. Both men stopped still. No one said anything. Rolo rubbed at some paint on his palm. She moved closer to her uncle. ‘She doesn’t live in a palace or a fancy London mansion – she lives at Highgate.’

  ‘Valentina helped steal you away from us?’ Rolo asked.

  ‘Valentina had nothing to do with it. It was her sister, Ernestine.’

  ‘That’d be right.’ Rindolf snorted. ‘Always was an interfering old cow.’

  ‘Valentina’s still beautiful, Uncle Rolo, just like you told me.’

  Aurelie glanced at Rindolf, wondering if she should say more. He gave her a nod. ‘What are you going to do?’

  Rolo paused before he stood up and dropped his brush in its tin. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Nothing? But you came back to tell Valentina how you felt, and now’s your chance.’

  ‘But what if she doesn’t feel the same way? What if she never did? What if –’

  ‘You never say anything and live the rest of your life wondering “what if”?’ Rindolf waved his brush.

  ‘When did everyone start thinking they were such experts on what I should do with my life?’

  ‘When you forgot how to live it properly,’ Rindolf said. ‘Aurelie’s right. You were given this chance to come back, and what have you done with it?’

  ‘Put up with you.’

  ‘Put up with me?’ Rindolf threw his hands in the air. ‘And what about what I’ve had to put up with from you? You think you’ve been easy to live with, moping around and writing letters every night to someone who never gets them?’

  Rolo opened his mouth to speak, but stopped. He slipped his hands into his pockets, walked across the ring and pushed aside the canvas flap.

  ‘Did we say the wrong thing?’ Aurelie asked.

  ‘No.’ Rindolf smiled warmly. ‘It’s time he heard all that and since I’ve lost my painting partner, do you feel like helping me?’

  Aurelie picked up the spare brush. ‘Do you think he’ll really do nothing?’

  ‘I don’t know. He can be hard to understand sometimes. I’ll give him time before I check he’s okay.’

  ‘It was nice of you to come back for him.’

  Rindolf shrugged. ‘I couldn’t leave him here on his own. Who else is going to tell him when he’s being a stubborn old mule?’

  Aurelie smiled. ‘What letters does he write?’

  ‘They’re for Valentina. He writes one every day. Sometimes just a thought, other times they’re pages long.’

  ‘What does he do with them?’

  ‘Puts them in his trunk at the foot of his bed. Must be hundreds of them in there by now.’

  Aurelie dropped her paintbrush in the tin.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘There’s something I need to do.’ She kissed him on the cheek. ‘Thank you, Uncle Rindo.’

  ‘What did I do?’

  Outside the marquee, Aurelie saw Rolo at the far end of the pier, his legs dangling over the side, his head hung forward. She snuck around the back of the dodgem cars to Rolo and Rindolf’s room above the lollipop shop. She crept quickly up the back steps to a narrow balcony and tried to open the door. She moved further along and wriggled her fingers beneath a window. After two firm tugs, she yanked it open. ‘Lucky you two are no good at fixing your own things.’

  She slid inside and went straight to the trunk at the end of the bed. She pulled on the large iron lock, but it wouldn’t budge.

  ‘Where would you keep the key?’ She looked around the room at the books piled on top of an upright piano, shelves spilling with clothes and two roughly made beds. Then she saw it. The one place in the room that wasn’t in chaos. A small violin hung from the wall.

  ‘She reminded me of music,’ Aurelie whispered. She took the violin from its hook and heard something slide around inside. She turned it over and shook an old key onto the floor. ‘You’re such a romantic, Rolo.’

  She turned the key in the lock and lifted the wooden lid. There, in carefully arranged bundles tied with different coloured ribbons, were the letters. She picked up a pile and looked through them. On the front of each one was Valentina’s name in sweeping ink, along with a date. She slipped them under her jumper, grabbed some change from a tin on the table and hurried out the way she came.

  Valentina smiled as she walked down the long drive of Highgate Mansion. Beyond the large iron gates guarding the property, a taxi sat with its engine running, and standing beside it was Aurelie.

  ‘It’s nice to see you again.’ Valentina unlocked the gates and pulled them towards her.

  Aurelie held her hands behind her back. ‘I thought of something I’d like to ask you.’

  A stray curl blew across Aurelie’s face. Valentina gently brushed it away. ‘Of course. What is it?’

  Aurelie held out a flier in one hand. ‘Bonhoffen’s Phantasmagoria. We’re going to make the pier great again. Will you help?’

  ‘It’d be my pleasure.’

  ‘And I have something that belongs to you.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes.’ Aurelie swept the pile of letters from behind her.

  Valentina frowned. ‘They’re not mine.’

  ‘They are. Look.’ Aurelie slid aside the ribbon, revealing Valentina’s name. ‘There are lots more back at the pier if you decide you want them.’

  ‘I –’ Valentina’s words snagged.

  ‘Have got lots of reading to do.’ Aurelie handed her the letters. ‘Oh, and wear old clothes on the weekend. It might get a bit messy.’ She climbed back into the taxi and smiled as Valentina pulled the first letter from the pile and began reading.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  A Dark Deal by the Docks

  Mayor Bog and his wife slept in separate rooms. Mrs Bog complained that he snored the snore of the devil and sleep deprivation would make her old and wrinkled before her time. So while Mrs Bog got all the sleep she needed, Mayor Bog happily moved into a room by himself. It was from this room that he stole into the late hours one wintry night.

  He’d dressed in long underwear, woollen trousers and jacket, a dark cape he’d only purchased that afternoon and a thick scarf. The winds from the sea were bitter and unforgiving as they sank their teeth into Gribblesea. It snapped at Mayor Bog’s heels as he wound his way down dark, cobbled alleyways. He kept his cape well forward over his head and his scarf firmly secured across his face.

  Few people in the town ever ventured to the docks at night and, for those who visited in daylight, it was purely for business. Ships arrived with cargo from each end of the earth. Cloth, shoes and spices from the East; fragile glassware from the islands of Gozo in Malta or Murano in Venice; lotions and potions from America and, at times, precious artefacts that had to be personally escorted to secure warehouses before they were unwrapped in the finest antique shops.

  It was a forgotten part of town. Mangy and ill-tempered cats scrounged through bins in s
earch of food scraps. Abandoned dogs limped nearby, hoping for leftovers. There was talk of murders and drunken brawls. Those who had lost their way in life were drawn here, left to breathe their last forlorn breaths in the dock’s littered streets.

  Mayor Bog was looking for a particular all-night bar called The Lucky Sailor that he’d heard about in late-night meetings at the council. A bar frequented by disreputable types. Types who, he was told, came in handy for ‘certain business’ when all other avenues failed.

  He found it tucked into an alleyway no wider than his outstretched hands. A small red light swung into the wind above its heavy wooden door. There was no sign to invite you in. If you were coming to this bar, you knew where it was and strangers were not welcome. Mayor Bog stepped carefully forward, until a rat the size of a small dog scuttled over his shoes. He flung himself against a wall and clamped his hand across his mouth, fighting the urge to scream.

  The door of the bar burst open and two sailors toppled out into the laneway, laughing and tripping and holding each other up. Mayor Bog slipped sideways, into the shadows, as they stumbled past.

  His heart threatened to jump from his chest.

  He took a few deep breaths, pulled the hood of his cape further down his face and pushed open the door.

  It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust in the dim, smoke-filled room. Only the bartender, with his hunched back and balding head, could be seen in a pool of light from above the bar. The rest of the patrons were faceless shadows. Darkened booths lined the walls. Bog squinted at figures huddled in muffled conversations. Others were slumped over, fast asleep on their crossed arms.

  He approached the bar and lowered his voice. ‘Cicero?’

  With a flick of his head, the bartender motioned to a man in the nearest booth. Bog was about to move but thought he’d look less out of place with a drink.

  ‘Lemonade.’

  There was a snigger from somewhere in the shadows. The barman took a long time to shuffle to a dusty shelf behind him before he placed the fizzy drink on the counter. Bog paid and approached the booth.

  ‘Are you Cicero?’