The Patron Saint of Lost Souls

by Menna Van Praag

  ‘Are you—will you …’ François fumbles. ‘Are you having one too?’

  ‘Of course,’ Jude says. ‘Gertie’ll get one for me. I always have whatever she’s having. She has impeccable taste.’

  François smiles. ‘I’m sure.’ He glances to the window seat. ‘I … I was just about to have one myself,’ he says. ‘Would you … would you like to join me?’

  Chapter Seventy-One

  Viola is standing in Mathieu’s kitchen, hovering over a simmering pot of beef bourguignon, when Hugo walks in, holding something against his chest. He lingers by the table, leaning against the back of a chair.

  ‘Hey,’ Viola turns to him. ‘It won’t be long, it’s nearly ready.’

  Hugo shrugs.

  ‘Just another ten minutes or so.’

  Hugo is silent.

  ‘M—Your dad told me it’s your favourite,’ Viola ventures. ‘So, I thought …’

  It’s her first night being back in Mathieu’s home and Viola is determined that, this time, everything will be OK. She’s not hoping for great, not even good. Just OK. She’s set the bar low. So long as dinner doesn’t descend into screaming profanities, Viola will consider it a success.

  Still, without speaking, Hugo shuffles across the kitchen to stand beside Viola at the oven. She looks down at him. He looks up at her. Viola waits, feeling increasingly anxious with each passing moment as she wonders what awful thing he might be building up to say. Or do. What if he asks, begs, demands that she stay away from his father? What will she say? What will she do? Viola is still panicking when Hugo holds a package out towards her.

  ‘Oh,’ Viola says, slightly thrown. ‘What—’

  ‘Open it,’ Hugo says, a little gruffly but not unkindly.

  Viola fingers the package, feels the weight of it, stops short of holding it up to her ear to see if it ticks. ‘All … right, then …’ Slowly, she unties the knot and slips off the string. Carefully, she eases off the Sellotape and pulls back the brown paper wrapping.

  ‘It’s a notebook,’ Viola says.

  Her words are met with a look from Hugo that seems to both question the levels of her sanity and imply the depths of her stupidity in the same glance.

  ‘It’s my mother’s notebook.’

  ‘Oh?’

  He shrugs again. ‘Maman—’ His voice catches and he stops. ‘She, she wrote down her favourite recipes. The ones she made for us on special occasions and … I thought you should probably learn them.’

  Now gripping the book as if it’s an original manuscript of Macbeth signed by Shakespeare himself, Viola is unable to find adequate words to express how she’s suddenly feeling.

  Hugo looks down, kicking his toe into the floor.

  Viola wants to shake herself in order to regain the gift of speak. She needs to say something. Something beautiful, meaningful, profound. But it’s no use. She’s mute. Finally, without looking up, Hugo turns and starts shuffling across the kitchen, pulling his shoes against the stone floor, heading towards the door. She needs to say something. Anything, anything at all. Now.

  ‘Merci,’ Viola manages. ‘Thank you.’

  And she only hopes, as he shuffles off, without turning back, that Hugo knows, at least senses, how much feeling is contained in those two little words.

  That night, long after all the beef bourguignon has been eaten, after its juices have been mopped up by thick crusts of sourdough bread, long after a full-bellied Hugo has slipped off to bed, Viola sits beside Mathieu on the sofa.

  ‘That went well, I think,’ Viola says, for perhaps the fifth time in the past hour. ‘Don’t you?’

  Mathieu nods. ‘I do. I thought so five minutes ago and I think so now.’

  ‘He enjoyed the food, didn’t he?’

  Mathieu nods again. ‘He ate two platefuls and pronounced it “alright”. That’s about as high praise as you can ever hope to extract from Hugo, for anything. So yes, I’d say it was a hit.’

  Viola smiles. She hasn’t told Mathieu about the recipe book, not yet. It’s perhaps the most precious gift she’s ever received and she wants to keep it a secret for just a little longer. She’s considering choosing one of the recipes and surprising Mathieu with the dish. But, since she’s not certain yet whether or not this would be a completely happy surprise, Viola is still considering.

  There’s another secret she’s been keeping, though, that she can’t quite bear to keep any longer.

  ‘I’ve got a confession,’ she says.

  ‘Oh.’ Mathieu looks up. ‘Should I be worried?’

  ‘No, it’s a good thing. I mean, it is … on balance, I’m pretty sure you’ll think so.’

  Mathieu sits forward. ‘You’re making me nervous. Will you just tell me now, please?’

  ‘Hold on,’ Viola says, standing. ‘I’ve got to go and get it.’

  ‘Get what?’

  ‘Wait!’ Viola calls back as she darts across the carpet. ‘I’ll be back in just a sec—’

  Mathieu is standing too, when Viola returns a few moments later.

  ‘That wasn’t a second,’ Mathieu says, pacing now. ‘It was a full minute.’ He nods to the carriage clock on the mantelpiece. ‘I timed you.’

  Viola smiles. ‘Stop panicking, I told you it wasn’t bad.’

  ‘I thought you’d left me again.’

  ‘Hey, that’s a bit unfair,’ Viola protests. ‘That wasn’t entirely—’

  ‘OK, OK,’ Mathieu waves her words away. ‘Please, just put me out of my misery, will you?’

  In reply, Viola holds out her closed fist in front of him.

  He eyes her suspiciously. ‘What is it?’

  She opens her hand to reveal a curl of gold foil lying on her palm. A frown flickers across Mathieu’s face. And then he realises.

  ‘You told me you’d lost it.’

  ‘I lied.’

  Mathieu’s frown returns. ‘But … why?’

  ‘I … I …’ Viola looks contrite. ‘I wanted to hurt you, to pretend it didn’t matter to me …’ She trails off. When she speaks again her voice is so soft that Mathieu has to lean in to hear her. ‘But it did matter. More than anything.’

  She’s silent then, looking up at Mathieu, waiting. But he doesn’t speak. Instead, he picks up the chocolate wrapper, holding it tenderly between finger and thumb, then places the palm of Viola’s hand above his own and slips the makeshift ring onto her finger. Then he brings her hand to his lips.

  ‘We’ll have to get one for you too, then.’ Viola smiles. ‘I suppose it’s a good excuse to buy another box of chocolates.’

  ‘Well …’ Now Mathieu looks sheepish.

  ‘What?’

  Letting go of Viola’s hand, he walks over to the mantelpiece and opens a small engraved silver trinket box that sits beside the carriage clock. Then he replaces the lid, turns and walks back to her.

  ‘What do you have there?’ Viola asks, though she’s starting to suspect she already knows.

  Mathieu opens his hand to show her his own gold foil ring.

  ‘You said you threw it away!’

  Mathieu bites his lip. ‘I wanted to hurt you,’ he says. ‘I wanted to pretend it didn’t matter to me either.’

  ‘You cheeky bugger!’ Viola reaches out and smacks his arm.

  ‘Hey, you started it,’ Mathieu protests. ‘I only did it in revenge.’

  ‘So, that makes it OK then, does it?’

  Mathieu gives a half-shrug. ‘Yeah, I think it sort of does.’

  Viola considers this. ‘Well, maybe. But you’re still a bit of a bugger, nevertheless.’

  Mathieu holds his hands up. Then, seemingly about to say something, instead he drops his arms and reaches out to pull Viola into a hug. She squirms in mock protest.

  ‘Don’t think you can just charm yourself out of this one,’ she says. ‘You may be charming, but you’re not that charming.’

  ‘Aren’t I?’ Mathieu smiles. ‘Are you sure?’

  He leans down to kiss her neck. Viola
exhales.

  ‘Yes,’ she says, closing her eyes. ‘Quite sure.’

  ‘That’s a shame,’ he says, still kissing her. ‘Because I was going to suggest something a little bit charming.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, now I’m not sure I should.’

  Viola opens her eyes. ‘Do you want me to hit you again?’

  Mathieu laughs. ‘No, please, not that. I’m not sure I could survive another blow.’

  Viola hits him.

  ‘Ouch!’ Mathieu exclaims. ‘That actually hurt.’

  Viola shrugs. ‘I told you not to mess with me. You were warned.’

  ‘True,’ Mathieu concedes. ‘But then, perhaps I should reconsider my proposal. I’m not sure I can take a beating like that every day.’

  ‘Proposal?’

  ‘Well …’ Mathieu says, ‘I was going to … suggest that perhaps we should … replace these’ – he nods at their hands – ‘with rings made of something a little more … substantial.’

  Viola smiles. ‘You think so?’

  ‘Well …’ Now Mathieu shrugs. ‘It might be practical. I’m no expert, but I think that solid gold might just last a little longer than a chocolate wrapper. What do you think?’

  Viola considers. ‘I’m not entirely sure … But, since you’re the professor, I’ll have to take your word for it.’

  ‘You will?’ Mathieu says.

  Viola smiles. ‘Yes, I will.’

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  ‘Do you like him?’

  ‘Who?’

  Gertie licks her ice cream – today’s chosen flavour is elderflower sorbet – and gives her aunt a mischievous grin. ‘You know who.’

  ‘I most certainly do not,’ Jude protests, taking refuge in her own ice cream. ‘I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  Gertie giggles. ‘So, we’ve come for our Friday treat on Monday because … why exactly?’

  Jude shrugs. ‘No reason.’

  Gertie raises an eyebrow at her aunt.

  ‘Can’t we just be spontaneous sometimes?’ Jude protests. ‘Perhaps I just felt like doing it differently this week.’

  Gertie laughs. ‘No offence, Aunt Jude, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen you doing anything spontaneous – ever. We always eat dinner at seven o’clock every day, except on Saturdays, when we get an Indian takeaway and eat at seven-thirty in front of Strictly, when it’s on, or—’

  ‘Alright, alright,’ Jude says. ‘You’ve made your point. But, in my defence, I read that children like routine, so it’s for your benefit, really.’ She gives a nonchalant shrug. ‘Personally, if it was just me, I wouldn’t care when I ate dinner, or if I had a Chinese takeaway on Saturdays or even if I missed Strictly altogether.’

  Gertie regards her aunt with an incredulous, imperious look. ‘You are so full of sh—’

  ‘Gertie,’ Jude warns. ‘Don’t even think about it.’

  Gertie rolls her eyes. ‘You’re such a prude,’ she says. ‘Mum never cared if I swore. She swore like a sailor, you’d have been shocked.’

  Jude studies her niece. ‘You’re a useless liar. Which, I must say, is a great relief.’

  Gertie sighs. ‘Worth a try. Anyway, we weren’t talking about me.’

  ‘Weren’t we?’

  Taking a decisive lick of her ice cream, Gertie assumes an authoritative air. ‘As someone who’s had a boyfriend for three months now, I can give you some advice, if you like.’

  ‘Oh, you can, can you?’

  ‘Well, Aunt Jude, since I’ve had a boyfriend,’ Gertie continues, ‘I have observed that, in matters of the heart, you seem to be something of an amateur.’

  At this, Jude can’t help but giggle. ‘Oh, you have, have you?’

  Gertie nods. ‘I have. And I think—’

  ‘Aren’t you a little too young to have a boyfriend?’

  Gertie is incredulous. ‘I’m twelve and a half. That’s ancient. Fiona O’Conner’s had a boyfriend since she was nine—’

  ‘Really? The same boyfriend for three years? That’s impressive.’

  Gertie sniffs, as if Jude really is the most clueless person alive. ‘Not the same one,’ she says. ‘She’s had, like, I don’t know, eight or nine. She’s—’

  ‘Nine boyfriends?’ Jude says. ‘Gosh, that’s quite an achievement at twelve.’

  Gertie nods. ‘How many boyfriends have you had, Aunt Jude?’

  Jude considers how best to respond to this rather embarrassing question. ‘Well, um, I … I can’t really remember,’ she says. ‘I, um, I’d have to think about it.’

  Gertie crosses her arms, ice cream momentarily forgotten. ‘Go on, then.’

  ‘Well, perhaps … somewhere around … maybe not quite so many as Fiona O’Conner,’ she says. ‘But … I’d say, four or five or thereabouts.’

  Gertie laughs. ‘Aunt Jude, you’re an even worse liar than me.’

  That night, François wakes at four o’clock in the morning. He sits up on Mathieu’s sofa, reaching for the silver pendant that he keeps beside him, when he sleeps. He’s been dreaming about that woman again. Embarrassingly, it wasn’t salacious, or even remotely sexual. Instead, they were sitting in the ice cream shop, talking. He’d been rather delighted to discover that Jude was single, that the girl, Gertie, is her niece not her daughter.

  Pressing his thumb into the pendant, rubbing the face of St Joseph, François, all at once, remembers. Now he knows why Gertie looked so familiar.

  François met Frances in Paris, thirteen years ago while she was travelling through Europe on the trains, following her fancy from day to day. They’d laughed over the fact that they shared the same name. And after that they’d spent a rather splendid few days and nights becoming better acquainted. And then, one morning, she’d just disappeared. And he’d forgotten her. Though, to this day, he still thinks she had the most enchanting eyes of any woman he’d met, before or since. And, clearly, she has passed those eyes on to her daughter. François can’t be certain that Gertie is Frances’s daughter, of course, though he’d bet his life on it. The eyes are identical.

  All of a sudden, something else occurs to him. A flash of possibility. Twelve years ago. A lot of sex, some of it unprotected. Amazing, amazing sex. Some of the best, indeed, that he’s ever had. And he’s had plenty. François takes a moment to recall a few of the more delicious details of one particular night on a riverboat on the Seine …

  How old is Gertie? Ten? Twelve? François feels the pendant between his fingers, he rubs his thumb across the engraving of St Joseph. Something niggles at him. All those lessons at Sunday school. He’s … who? The Patron Saint of the Church, right. And? Unborn children. Yes. And immigrants and … fatherhood. Exactly. Of course.

  And then François knows, as surely as he knew that the locket belonged to him, as surely as he knew he was falling in love with Jude, that this girl, Gertie, is his daughter, and that he is her father.

  One Year Later

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  Hugo sticks his head around the kitchen door. ‘We need another batch of lavender-cheese scones,’ he shouts. ‘And loads more of those petites madeleines – we’ve nearly sold out.’

  ‘Coming up!’ Viola shouts back. She hears the clap-clap of his footsteps receding, dashing off back through the cafe again. And then, just as quickly, Hugo’s returning, his disembodied head hovering in mid-air in the doorway.

  ‘And one really awkward customer is requesting a St Honoré cake,’ he says. ‘He claims it’s his birthday, but I think he’s just trying to get a free slice.’

  Hugo disappears again and Viola hears him laughing and Mathieu’s voice in the background exclaiming, something along the lines of: ‘You cheeky little bugger!’ Accompanied by another peel of Hugo’s laughter.

  Viola smiles, stirring the last of the flour into the mixing bowl and glancing at the closest of her three ovens, the St Honoré cake already baking, nearly ready, a surprise for Mathieu on his birthday. Hugo had transl
ated Virginie’s diary into English and Viola had managed to decipher the exact quantities that each recipe had required. She no longer needs to refer to them, of course, but Viola still keeps the diary on the shelf above the counter where she bakes, so it can look down and bless her efforts and, perhaps, sprinkle a little fairy dust into the flour and sugar, to ensure that every profiterole puffs up, every cake rises and every chocolate-passionfruit macaron is perfectly crisp on the outside and chewy on the inside.

  It had taken Viola a full week before she’d even opened Virginie’s diary. She’d wrapped it in a blue silk scarf, a birthday present from her mother, and waited for the right moment. At first, she’d left it on her bedside table but this had seemed improper, given what she and Mathieu sometimes did in that bed, and too intimate, somehow, so she’d moved the diary to the kitchen, which had felt more appropriate anyway. Finally, one night, Viola had poured a large glass of red wine (French) and baked a batch of chocolate eclairs, filling the kitchen with the warmth and the scent of sugar and pastry, chocolate and vanilla cream, which she thought Virginie would have appreciated.

  Viola had drunk two full glasses of wine and eaten five eclairs before finding the courage to actually open the diary and, even then, she’d not been able to protect the pages from her tears as she read. It was the smudges that did it, the smudges that were surely, certainly, from previous tears – Mathieu’s or Hugo’s or, more likely, both – so that she couldn’t make out some of the words. She’d imagined then, what it might be like if Mathieu died, if she was left alone with Hugo. But she couldn’t. It was too much, too terrible. And, in that moment, Viola had felt a flicker of what her mother must have felt when her father died.

  When Viola had turned every page, had studied every mark, every smudge, every stain, she finally closed the diary and held it to her chest. The bottle of wine was empty now, the eclairs gone.

  ‘Thank you,’ Viola whispered. ‘I promise I’ll take care of your boys.’