‘Why yes, Madame. This is my niece, Madeleine.’
‘I’m not sure I understand. Are you proposing I cook her as a rare delicacy?’
At this Madeleine’s blood ran cold, but her uncle roared with laughter. ‘If you so wish, Madame. I had in mind a little helper. She can cook, she can clean, she can make your shop look brand-new.’
‘As you may have noticed, Monsieur,’ said Madame Pamplemousse, ‘my shop has never looked “brand-new”, nor do I think it ever will.’
‘Come, come, let’s be frank,’ said Lard. ‘You are not a rich lady; you can afford no staff. Just think how useful she could be. After all, we know what a menace rats can be in this district.’
‘We have no problem with rats,’ she said and, from a dark corner, Camembert burped loudly and licked his whiskers.
Lard’s bull-like neck flexed itself horribly. He had to suppress a powerful urge to smash the whole place to pieces. But instead, he smiled. ‘It may interest you to know I have recently made friends with many powerful people in television and the government.’ His smile became greasier. ‘They tell me how easily a shop like yours may be closed on the slightest suspicion of poor hygiene.’
To this Madame Pamplemousse did not immediately reply. Madeleine couldn’t be sure but sensed that she was turning something over in her mind – that she was making some kind of decision. Then, with an awful feeling like someone squeezing a lemon inside her stomach, she realised Madame Pamplemousse was staring at her again. Madeleine steeled herself and, cautiously, stared back.
Madame Pamplemousse had the strangest eyes she had ever seen. They were a very deep purpley blue, the colour of wild lavender. By no means were they unpleasant eyes, nor were they unkind, but they weren’t exactly kind either. Then, miraculously, she smiled. ‘Very well, Monsieur,’ she said. ‘Since you make me such a charming offer, I accept. She may indeed prove useful.’
Monsieur Lard beamed with satisfaction. ‘An excellent decision, Madame. She won’t let you down, will you, Madeleine?’
‘Of course not, Uncle,’ said Madeleine.
‘Any monkey business, you come straight to me.’ Lard punched his hand for emphasis. ‘I’ll soon sort her out.’
‘Thank you, Monsieur, that won’t be necessary,’ said Madame Pamplemousse curtly.
‘You don’t believe me, Madame?’ Lard moved closer until his hulking body towered above her. ‘I may look like a gentle man but I’ve still got one or two tricks up my sleeve.’
From high above Lard’s head there was a tiny sound, such as of a stopper or cork being released from a bottle. A moment later, Lard felt drops of moisture spotting on his head.
‘Damn it,’ he cried. ‘Even your confounded roof is leaking!’
‘Alas no, Monsieur,’ said Madame Pamplemousse. ‘It is not my roof that is leaking, but for some mysterious reason a bottle has upturned itself on the highest shelf and is dripping on to your head. Unfortunately it is a bottle containing concentrated oil from the Green Demon Pimento: a small but extraordinarily powerful chilli that used to grow in ancient Peru and was once worshipped as a god by the Incas. It is so powerful that one single drop is stronger than the hottest curry in the world. I regret to inform you, Monsieur, that several drops appear to have landed on your head.’
But before she had finished, Lard’s nostrils had already started to steam; his eyes went a bright green colour and he ran straight for the door, bellowing loudly like a bull. Then, as mysteriously as it had begun, the dripping stopped and, staring up, Madeleine thought she saw the darting shape of a long white body slipping behind the bottles on the highest shelf. Then all was silent and, looking down again, Madeleine realised she was alone.
Chapter Eight
Madame Pamplemousse and her cat had completely vanished. Madeleine had only looked up for a second; how could they have disappeared so quickly? She opened her mouth to call out but then thought better of it. It might be some kind of trick they were playing. Perhaps they already suspected she was a spy. She shivered at the thought.
But not just that; there was something distinctly creepy about the place. It was partly the shadows made by the candle flames, which were long and spindly and danced across the walls, and the foods themselves, which seemed almost to be alive, as if the cheeses were softly sighing and the bunches of sausages whispering in their dry, garlicky voices.
As Madeleine’s eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, she stared closer at the shelves. Each one was packed densely with shining coloured-glass containers and behind each row there would be another and another, as far as the eye could see, and the shelves themselves were all stacked higgledy-piggledy up to the ceiling. One was filled with different types of mustard in many shades of yellow. Above this there was a dark, cavernous shelf reaching into the shadows, and it was only after she had counted back Olives, Black Truffles, Caviar, Pickled Walnuts from the Fourteenth Century, Woodland Snails Stuffed with Sausage Meat, Python Heads with Liquorice and Giant-Squid Eyes in Balsamic Vinegar that she realised everything on it was completely black.
Stepping back a couple of paces, she looked up at another shelf and saw how all the bottles and jars were in varying shades of green.
Madeleine found an old, rickety ladder and, climbing up, she surveyed the winding tower of shelves about her and saw how they formed a carousel of moving colours, each one seeping into the other, blending subtly so that no one ever clashed or made itself too bold but shifted gracefully: from the golden hues of Barracuda Fillets in Garlic Butter to the dark, orchard greens of Grasshoppers in Tarragon Oil; from the rich purple of Lavender-Crusted Frogs’ Legs to the dark crimson of Velociraptor Heart in Red Wine. And there, right at the top, on the highest shelf, was a tiny jar into which all the spinning hues were coiling and flickering, like flames reflecting in the glass.
She knew instinctively what it must be: it was the special delicacy for which her uncle wanted the recipe. Perhaps this jar would hold the secret. It might even have the ingredients on its label. She felt a sudden, overwhelming desire to snatch it and run away. Then she could give it to her uncle and it would all be over; she would be free.
Without stopping to think, she reached up.
And immediately regretted it. The ladder was not quite high enough and began to wobble. Desperately she tried to steady herself, just managing to get a hold when above her she heard a hissing sound, and there was Camembert on the highest shelf. Madeleine screamed and let go her hand. The ladder tottered in mid-air for a second before plummeting straight to the ground.
.
And there, perfectly positioned at the precise point at which Madeleine would have landed, was Madame Pamplemousse, who caught her just in time. In fact, she caught the silver fairy wings, which meant they broke off from the back of Madeleine’s dress, leaving her to fall only a small distance to the floor.
‘So, Mademoiselle, you have found your way around?’
‘Yes, Madame,’ said Madeleine, somewhat shaken.
‘You have a keen eye, I see. Very good. I am also delighted that you have lost those ridiculous wings. All in all, a most promising start.’
‘Thank you, Madame,’ said Madeleine.
‘Never mind Camembert. He makes no effort to put people at their ease. That’s how he is; there’s nothing I can do about it. Besides, he may have thought you were spying.’
Madeleine started when she heard this and began to go bright red. Quickly she averted her eyes. But when she looked up again, Madame Pamplemousse appeared not to have noticed. Instead, she was busy by the cheese counter, unwrapping a giant goat’s cheese from an enormous green leaf. ‘Well, Mademoiselle,’ she said. ‘Are you ready?’
And from that moment Madeleine began officially to be Madame Pamplemousse’s assistant. Starting with the goat’s cheese, she was taught about all 653 different varieties of cheese that were available in the shop. This included a mouldy blue cheese that dated back to the French Revolution and a soft, gooey ooze with a brownish green rind
that was once a favourite of Joan of Arc. This was so unspeakably stinky that it had to be protected by a heavy marble lid several centimetres thick, but even so Madeleine was sure she sometimes saw it rattling and, on one occasion, heard it softly belch.
At the back of the shop there was a low doorway which led into an anteroom: a small kitchen area with a stone floor and a large, dark wooden table. It was here that she would be put to work each day, learning how to fillet an anchovy and to dress it in oils and spices, how to smoke an eel, how to make pâté from a sea serpent and how to squeeze the nectar from a violet.
Madame Pamplemousse would give precise but rather minimal instructions in the kitchen, and Madeleine discovered that someone who did a lot of the actual cooking was Camembert. He was, for example, particularly skilful with a whisk. Via a set of steps, he would reach the table on his hind legs, and then, with one paw, whizz things together with astonishing speed. Equally, when it came to chopping he was incredibly fast. Madeleine could chop quite fast herself but she was wary of some of the knives, which looked like they might slice off your finger before you had even noticed. Though if ever she slowed down, Camembert would scowl disdainfully and ‘tsk’ until she speeded up.
But despite being afraid of them, Madeleine found she rather liked Madame Pamplemousse and her cat. However frightening they might seem, at least they never bullied her or shouted at her. And each day when she arrived, the shop would be empty, but on the counter a small brass pot of hot chocolate would be waiting, at just the right temperature. And with the door open to the sunlit street outside, she would sit sipping this in the cool of the morning.
For as long as she had been at the Squealing Pig, Madeleine used to wake up every day wishing she could go back to sleep. But now she could hardly wait to get out of bed. The tasks she was given at the shop were getting much more complex, though strangely she found she had to think less about what she was doing. Her instincts seemed to be quickening and becoming more refined.
Madame Pamplemousse had evidently noticed this because she began to treat her differently: less like a child and more like an equal – with respect. A respect, thought Madeleine guiltily, she would soon repay by betraying her.
By day she tried to forget about it, but come sundown her heart would sink at the prospect of her uncle’s interrogation. For she had been there two weeks now and still there was no sight of the precious recipe.
At the back of the shop, in the far corner of the little kitchen, there was a wrought-iron spiral staircase winding down to the floor below. Once, Madeleine had tiptoed down a couple of flights and seen at the bottom a corridor which led to a door. And she knew it was behind that door that Madame Pamplemousse cooked her most incredible edible.
Chapter Nine
Monsieur Lard was getting desperate. The restaurant had been closed for well over a week and there was no question of reopening until he had the secret recipe. But by now the whole of Paris was clamouring for tables, including the President of France himself, and Monsieur Lard had been forced to turn him down.
He was also growing suspicious, noticing how his niece had been looking a good deal happier lately.
‘Having fun, eh? Getting on with your new friends? Well, don’t worry, we’ll soon have you back. There’s a big pile of greasy plates in the kitchen and it’s got your name on it.’
He smiled, beginning to enjoy himself again. He realised he had been missing Madeleine; he’d forgotten how much fun it was making her life a misery.
‘I’m giving you one day. One more day. If I don’t have the recipe by then, I will personally see to it that Madame Pamplemousse’s shop is closed. I will ruin her just like that!’ And he snapped his fat pink fingers.
The next morning, Madeleine awoke feeling sick. It wasn’t just that she liked Madame Pamplemousse and didn’t want to betray her. It was also that she was downright scared of her and even more so of Camembert. Worst of all, she had the dreadful feeling the whole thing had been her fault, right from the start.
.
She knew her uncle had made powerful friends. Even now he was in dialogue with an international food conglomerate, called simply ‘FOOD’, who were making offers for the recipe in the region of 100 million euros. With money like that, he could do pretty much whatever he wanted.
Madeleine dreaded to think what would happen if her uncle didn’t get hold of the recipe but suspected that ruining Madame Pamplemousse would be the least of it. She could not allow that. With great reluctance, Madeleine decided what she must do.
It was while hunting for some Blue Rose-Petal Jam the week before that she had found something hidden beneath the shelves. She had come across a row of dusty old bottles containing Prehistoric Fungus in Jurassic Vinegar that appeared not to have been touched in many years. By chance she knocked one of these out of its place and, after the cloud of dust had disappeared, she saw a small chink of light beneath it. Light from a downstairs room.
Just then she had heard a soft padding of feet on the spiral staircase below and, fearing Camembert, she had replaced the bottle hastily before she could be caught.
Now she knew she had no alternative. She must choose her moment carefully, wait until she was alone and then find her way back to that small chink of light.
As luck would have it, the morning after Lard gave his ultimatum, Madame Pamplemousse said she would be downstairs cooking all day, and asked Madeleine to look after the shop by herself. Camembert skulked about, keeping his eye on her, but when he saw she wasn’t doing any harm he padded off down to the basement.
This was her moment. Now or never. Madeleine waited a good half-hour to make sure neither of them came back, and then, steeling herself, she crawled under the shelves. Very slowly and carefully she lifted up one of the bottles. She did this painstakingly with her fingertips so as to make no sound, but somehow the bottles still managed to clink together. They were made of old glass and gave off a soft but resounding chime. Madeleine froze, the bottle suspended in her hand, waiting to see if she had been overheard. But there was nothing, only the candles burning and the faint, dry rasp of the sausages sighing. With sweat trickling down her back, she lifted the bottle clear; and there it was, a hole in the floorboards. Putting her head down, she looked through this hole and found herself staring into a room.
It was a bare, mostly empty room, save for a stone fireplace and an old, wrought-iron cooker. In the centre of the room there was a long wooden table, with a chopping board on top of it and a selection of rather cruel-looking knives. There was no doubt about it. This was the hidden kitchen, the room behind the locked door.
Just then her heart jumped, for a dark shape suddenly flashed across the floor beneath her. It was Madame Pamplemousse! Madeleine tried to control her breathing and the thumping in her chest, which she thought must be terribly loud. But Madame Pamplemousse appeared not to have noticed and continued to move about the kitchen at her rapid pace.
She had emerged from under an archway, which Madeleine presumed led into the cavernous storerooms that lay beneath the shop. Madame Pamplemousse kept disappearing into the tunnel and then returning, bearing ever more bizarre-looking items in her arms.
She placed some of these on the chopping board and then Camembert, holding an enormous meat cleaver in his paw, proceeded to chop them into tiny pieces.
Meanwhile, Madame Pamplemousse was mixing ingredients into a bowl, a dash of something here, a pinch of something there, all performed with immense speed and delicacy. During this the cat and his mistress never spoke but worked together as one, like musicians in perfect harmony.
Madeleine was straining to see which ingredients they were using, trying to put together the recipe in her head, but they were working so fast it was impossible to keep up. As soon as one of them finished chopping or spooning something from a jar, it went straight into the bowl and immediately they were reaching for the next ingredient. Until suddenly they stopped.
Stopped dead still. Madeleine held her breath but di
dn’t know how long she could bear to and hoped very much the two of them would start cooking again. But they didn’t. Instead, Madame Pamplemousse looked up, stared directly at Madeleine through the gap in the floorboards and said, ‘Why don’t you come down, Mademoiselle? You might be able to see better.’
Madeleine jumped up from the floor, banging her head on the shelf above her. She scrambled out as quickly as she could and made a dash for the open door. But her path was blocked. For in an astounding display of athleticism, Camembert had bounded up the spiral staircase, swung himself from a hanging bunch of thyme and landed dead in front of her, his claws outstretched.
Madeleine knew she was doomed. Trembling, she obeyed as Camembert marched her downstairs, down the winding stairwell, along the dark corridor and into the underground kitchen. When she saw Madame Pamplemousse, all she could do was throw herself at her mercy. This she regretted immediately as the stone floor was very hard and she bruised both her knees in the process.
‘I’m so sorry!’ she cried. ‘I only did it to save you! My uncle said he would destroy you. He said if I didn’t give him the recipe, he would ruin you just like that!’ And she clicked her fingers.
Madeleine bowed her head low, waiting for her punishment. She felt certain it would be terrible, but also strangely relieved to have at last confessed her guilt. And so she waited.
And waited.
And then Madame Pamplemousse laughed.
‘My dear Madeleine,’ she said, ‘let me first of all assure you that neither of us blames you. We know about your uncle and his ridiculous plan; there’s little that escapes Camembert’s eye. As a matter of fact, I think you are rather brave for attempting to spy on us.’
Madame Pamplemousse and Her Incredible Edibles Page 3