Jude feels Gertie shift, ever so slightly, to glance at her hand. Jude waits. And waits. And waits. She hears the social workers muttering and the foster parents mumbling but she doesn’t move, doesn’t look up, just waits. And then, after what might have been an hour or an entire afternoon, Gertie unfolds her arms and lets her left hand settle on the sofa beside her aunt’s. Jude sneaks a look to see that their little fingers are only an inch apart. Again, she waits. And then, so the movement is almost imperceptible, Jude shifts her finger, millimetre by millimetre, until just the tips of their fingers are touching. And then she stays. Aunt and niece sit together like that, both staring out of the window, watching the snow fall and saying nothing at all.
Chapter Fourteen
Viola has two weeks left; fourteen days to perfect her culinary masterpiece. Three hundred and thirty-six hours to cook. Although, frustratingly, she’ll have to surrender at least some of those hours to sleep. Four other sous-chefs are taking part in the competition. Viola’s not worried about three of them, but Henri is a different story. For starters, he’s an actual genuine Frenchman and so already sports a distinctly unfair biological advantage. He has grown up consuming and creating the culinary delights that Viola can only attempt to imitate. Henri had Frenchness in his blood, bones, fingertips. In addition to this, he maintains almost superhuman abilities to work without stopping for days on end. No matter how early Viola arrives at the restaurant, dragging herself through shivering exhaustion, Henri has invariably always beaten her to it, bright and sparky, as if propelled from bed like a full-of-life four-year-old sustained by sheer enthusiasm. And no matter how late Viola leaves, saggy with sleep, Henri, now vampiric in his nocturnal embrace, is still pulling some fresh-baked delight from the ovens.
Occasionally, when she’s particularly exhausted, Viola considers capitulating, throwing in her chef’s hat and throwing up her hands in defeat and letting the best, as Henri clearly is, man win. It would be so much easier, so much softer to simply surrender, to let herself slip back into the snugness of sleep instead of throwing herself out into the unforgiving weather, the freezing chill of the early morning or late-night air. It would be so easy, so effortless. All she’d have to do is … nothing at all.
But, whenever this notion becomes so tempting that Viola starts fantasising about it, she hears her father’s voice: ‘Ordinary people are all quitters, Vi, don’t be one of them. You’ve got to strive for greatness. You’ve got to suffer to do anything worthwhile. If you want to illuminate this world you’ve got to burn.’ Viola’s childhood was populated not with siblings or friends but the spirits of great men and women evoked by her father during their long talks. ‘Imagine if Edison had given up after his 1,239th effort at inventing the light bulb. We wouldn’t have electricity,’ Jack Styring would say. ‘Well, at least we’d have had to have waited until someone even more determined came along. Someone willing to keep trying and keep failing until he or she got it right, no matter what.’ Little Viola would nod then, thinking her daddy the wisest person in all the world and, every night, before she went to sleep she’d make a solemn vow to her Pooh Bear, to whom she was almost equally devoted, that she would never be a quitter.
This morning, Viola’s boss has sent her back to the market for olives, a type stuffed with garlic cloves and wrapped in vine leaves that can only be purchased from Phillipe, the rather sexy Spanish chap who sells his wares every Tuesday and Thursday. Conveniently, the olive stall is directly behind the bookstall and, if she gets the chance, Viola’s planning a quick perusal. On Thursdays, the owner, Ben, often brings in new stock of second-hand cookery books. Often, they’re quite interesting.
Viola is slipping along Trinity Street, head down against the chill wind, hat pulled low, scarf wrapped tight, when she pauses to steady herself and stops. She doesn’t know why she stops, she certainly doesn’t have time to spare, since Jacques is expecting her straight back to prepare for the lunch guests, but something gives her pause. Rather as if someone has placed a gentle hand upon her shoulder, inviting her to stay awhile. And then, although every muscle in her body wants to push on to the market, Viola finds herself turning left into Green Street instead.
Thinking that she’s perhaps just taking a slight detour, Viola walks quickly, her eyes on her feet, not looking up into the faces of shoppers or the windows of shops. Until, again, something, an invisible tap on her shoulder perhaps, makes Viola look up. And then she stops again. The sign above the door reads Gatsby’s. And in the window is a display of such eclectic finery as to catch Viola’s breath. She gazes, awestruck at all the beauty displayed within: antique oil paintings in gilded gold frames, faded Persian rugs, an imperial grandfather clock, a red leather chair, a hand-painted delicate bone china tea set, a wooden rocking horse, a mahogany jewellery box inlaid with mother-of-pearl.
Viola doesn’t usually care for beauty, doesn’t really notice it all, unless it’s on a plate. But this is different. This display of things, this array of antiques isn’t simply beautiful but also – Viola can’t quite put her finger on it – enchanting. Gazing at this sparkling, polished, stitched and painted collection, Viola is reminded of being a little girl, of fairy tales, of Wonderland and Narnia, of imagined dreamt-of places that promised adventure and excitement and happily ever after. And so, Viola stands and looks for longer than she should and it’s only when another shopper bumps into her, proffering profuse bag-laden apologies as they scuttle off, that Viola is knocked out of her reverie.
‘Shit,’ she mutters. ‘What the hell am I doing?’
Unable to answer, Viola hurries off herself, following the shopper and his kind along Green Street. Five minutes later, she’s at the market stall, buying olives for Jacques, appreciating both the sight of Phillipe and the taster he gives her of his new delicacy: Sicilian pitted black olives stuffed with Parma ham. And then, even though she’s even now running late, Viola passes by the bookstall for a quick recce of the recipe books.
Ben smiles as she approaches. ‘Hey, Vi, how’s it going?’
‘Good, thanks,’ she says. ‘Got any new recipe books?’
He thinks for a moment. ‘A few.’
‘Great.’
‘I had a fantastic one, on food at the court of Versailles. Glorious pictures.’
‘Brilliant.’ Viola grins, thinking the detour, the lateness, worthwhile. ‘I’ll take it.’
‘Sorry,’ Ben says. ‘I only had the one. And that chap’ – he nods at a retreating figure in a long black coat and a flapping red scarf – ‘just bought it.’
Viola squints at the man. She recognises him, even from behind, though she can’t quite think where she’s seen him before. Dammit.
‘I’ve got Jamie Oliver’s latest,’ Ben says. ‘Only a fiver, to you.’
Giving him a wry smile, Viola shakes her head. ‘No thanks.’
Thinking she might dash after the book-stealer, might try to bargain with him, offer him a better price, Viola glances up to look for him but he’s gone.
Chapter Fifteen
Mathieu is buoyant. He has an idea. An inspiration. He holds in his hands a possibility. He had just been wandering aimlessly through the market, after buying a falafel from the green van he’d been hearing about so much from his students, when he’d stumbled upon the bookstall. And the book on the puddings of Versailles had just shone out at him. Flicking through it – the pictures were mouth-watering and the recipes enticing – he’d suddenly been blessed with a visit by the parental muse. He could make these with Hugo. Well, he could attempt one or two of the simpler ones. And, in the making, perhaps, just perhaps, Hugo would be inspired to eat.
A few nights ago, Mathieu had found Virginie’s diary hidden under his son’s pillow. How Hugo had managed to steal it from the locked drawer in Mathieu’s desk he doesn’t know and won’t ask. Thankfully, the diary, which Mathieu himself has read dozens of times since Virginie’s death, doesn’t contain anything too scandalous for an eleven-year-old, nothing sexy or salacio
us. What it does contain, in addition to several poems and the beginnings of a children’s story, are fifteen of Virginie’s favourite recipes, including the St Honoré cake she made every year on Mathieu’s birthday, the bichon au citron she made whenever Hugo insisted and the chocolate-passionfruit macarons and rich chocolate gateau she always made on New Year’s Eve.
The last time she’d done that was three years ago, five months before she died. And Hugo, then old enough to join in, had done so with great gusto. Their tiny Parisian kitchen had never been so messy. Hugo had never been so messy. Or so happy, covered in chocolate cream from head to toe. As his wife and son had exuberantly destroyed the kitchen together, Mathieu had watched from the doorway. And he’d wondered, as he looked on, whether any other man in the world in that moment had been happier than he. Together, the three of them had consumed all thirty-six macarons and most of the cake before midnight. Hugo had seen the new year in with his head down the lavatory. Mathieu had been wracked with guilt, feeling like the worst father of the year. But, since Hugo had still been smiling, even as he was throwing up, Mathieu thought that perhaps the price paid for their decadence had been worth it. Sometimes, in the few years that followed, Mathieu had remembered that moment, that thought, and wondered whether great happiness is always followed by great sorrow and whether the loss of his wife had been his own price to pay.
When Mathieu had found the diary tucked under Hugo’s pillow, he’d sat on his son’s bed and read his wife’s words again. She’d written it with her favourite fountain pen, in dark-blue ink, and the recipe for chocolate passionfruit macarons had been stained with tears, splashes that stained the pages, diluting and smudging the words so it was hardly possible to see how many grams of flour and how many cubes of chocolate were required. Practically, it didn’t matter, since Mathieu could remember every word from the many times he’d read them before. But it broke his heart to imagine Hugo crying over his mother’s words. Not a day goes by when Mathieu doesn’t wish with everything he is and everything he has that he could have spared his son this sadness. He would have done anything, paid any price, if only he could.
Now Mathieu heads towards the deli on Trinity Street, hoping he’ll be able to find at least some of the rather complicated and unusual ingredients for one or two of the Versailles recipes; perhaps chestnut soup with black truffles, or scallops and wild salmon salad à la royale, or beef madrilène with gold leaf spangles, or wild duck cromesquis à la Villeroy. But perhaps he’s being a little ambitious. Best start off simple. Rosemary rye bread might be manageable. It has occurred to Mathieu before that he could try baking the macarons with Hugo, or any of Virginie’s other favourites. But every time, he’s held back. Not only because it would be impossible to recreate the happiness of their New Years gone by, with the primary ingredient to that happiness missing, but any endeavour would only highlight the sorrow of their current condition. This, Mathieu knows, would be true of any attempted venture into the past. He cannot go back, he cannot find Hugo’s salvation in the resurrection of days long since dead and disappeared. But he can try to evoke their essence. And he can hope that, just as Proust’s madeleine returned to him the flavour of his childhood, the act of culinary creation will bring the scent, the love of Hugo’s mother back to him.
Just as he’s about to step into the Trinity Street deli, Mathieu catches sight of something, someone, that stops him in his tracks. A woman. Short and slight, and stooped against the wind. He recognises her face, though he can’t recall where he’s seen her before. He doesn’t know her name, he’s pretty sure of that. But there’s something about her that intrigues him, something that reminds him of his wife. He can’t quite put his finger on what, but it’s certainly there. Something. Mathieu stares. And then he notices something else as she hurries off down the street: she’s wearing a woollen hat, the colour of which exactly matches his own scarf. The scarf had been a gift from Virginie for his thirty-ninth birthday, though he’d only received it six months afterwards, in July. She’d spent the entire winter knitting it, trailing long spools of dark-red wool through the apartment that he and Hugo would frequently find themselves getting tangled up in, like the locks of Rapunzel’s hair.
Mathieu is so fixed on the disappearing hat and the woman wearing it, so entangled in memories of love and loss, that he walks straight into the glass door of the deli, closed against the cold, giving himself a headache and the aged, bag-laden customer on the other side quite a shock.
Chapter Sixteen
For the first few nights, Gertie sleeps in Jude’s bed. Jude doesn’t sleep at all but instead watches her niece, the rise and fall of her chest, anxious lest she might stop breathing. Jude’s not had someone to care for since her mother and she’d forgotten how it had felt, to live balanced on a taut wire of anxiety, between life and death, always nervous of slipping. Of course, Gertie isn’t ill, but the anxiety for her niece’s safety and happiness is just as sharp.
On the fourth morning, Jude stands in the kitchen, realising that the cupboards are bare and the fridge is nearly empty. She pulls her hands through her dank hair, wondering how best to rectify the situation. She curses her lack of forward planning. They’ve just been living hand to mouth for the past few days and Gertie hasn’t spoken another word since the first time they met. Jude is waiting, not pushing, not saying anything, not trying to coax her out. She’s sticking to her promise of no talking. And so she will wait until Gertie speaks first.
But, for now, she has the problem of sustenance to address. After all, food is love, isn’t it? Or, at least, a very close approximation thereof. Which is exactly what Gertie needs excessive amounts of right now: love, stability, comfort, warmth and to be well fed. And, since Jude can’t give Gertie her mother back, she’ll do her damnedest to provide everything else.
Jude is pacing the kitchen floor when she turns to see Gertie standing in the doorway, rubbing her eyes. It takes all of Jude’s restraint not to say something, but she manages just to smile. Gertie walks to the kitchen table and sits. Ah. But how can Jude tell her there is no breakfast to be had without actually telling her? Contemplating this conundrum, Jude stalls by opening the fridge and closing it again a few times. Then she checks the cupboards again for anything approaching consumable goods. But, unless Gertie happens to be partial to mustard mixed with peanut butter, chicken stock and tea bags in a breakfast soup, then Jude is out of luck.
How can she live like this? Jude thinks. It’s obscene. Well, it’s probably because she’s never had to look after another person before and she doesn’t look after herself very well, eating sandwiches and cakes from the various cafes dotted along Green Street and the surrounding areas. She has a particular penchant for the delicacies – especially the Italian pizzas, followed by the croissants with pistachio paste – from Gustare on Bene’t Street. The rather attractive chef, Marcello, who serves these delights doesn’t damage the experience either. But Jude will have to change her ways. Right now. Children need nutrients, a balanced diet to ensure they grow up healthy and strong. Jude can hear her mother’s voice saying such things as she set down another deliciously nutritious meal down on the table, dismissing young Jude’s protestations, demands for burgers and chips. Jude swallows down the swell of longing that always accompanies memories of her mother and focuses on her niece.
Judging by Gertie’s current size, she needs more nutrients than most. It’s vitally important that Jude feed Gertie something full of warmth, taste and nutrients. It is a test of motherhood that she desperately doesn’t want to fail.
And then, out of nowhere, comes another test, of far greater magnitude.
‘I want to visit Granddad.’
Jude stiffens. These are her niece’s first words after such a long silence. These?!
‘Oh,’ says Jude. ‘You do?’
The kitchen is silent, the air still. Gertie looks up at Jude, her eyes glassy, as if she’s looking through a fog. She nods. ‘Yes.’
‘Well, um,’ Jude says, d
esperately attempting a semblance of nonchalance. ‘Yes, of course we can, if you’d really like to.’
‘Don’t you want to?’ Gertie says.
‘No, no, of course, I’d like to,’ Jude lies. She can’t think of anything she’d like to do less than see her father. She hasn’t seen him in nearly a decade, not since her mother died. She’d hoped she wouldn’t see him again until she was identifying him in a morgue.
Gertie stands. ‘Good. Then let’s go.’
‘Now?’ Jude says. ‘Right now?’
Gertie shrugs. ‘Why not?’
‘Well … he might be busy, he might be … he might have other plans,’ Jude says, though she’s never known her father to do anything more adventurous than skulk to the shops to buy more booze. ‘Maybe we should call first.’
But Gertie shakes her head. ‘It should be a surprise.’
‘Oh. Really?’ Jude says. ‘But why?’
Gertie shrugs again. ‘Surprises are always better.’
Not this one, Jude thinks.
‘Let’s go, then,’ Gertie says.
Jude glances at the clock. Nearly half past eight. At least, if they get there early enough he won’t have started drinking yet.
‘What about breakfast? We’ve not had breakfast yet.’
‘That doesn’t matter. We can eat a sandwich or something on the way.’
‘Right,’ Jude says. At least this would solve the problem of the food shortage. ‘But, I think perhaps waiting for another day might be better. I’ve not seen your grandfather in a long time and—’
‘No,’ Gertie says, decisively. ‘We shouldn’t wait. Granddad might be dead tomorrow. I’ve been waiting a long time to see him. I don’t want to wait until it’s too late.’
The Patron Saint of Lost Souls Page 5