by Emma Carroll
At least now Monsieur Joseph turns to have a look.
‘Yes, Monsieur,’ I tell him. ‘It only went upwards when the wind got . . . I don’t know . . . inside of it somehow. It made it bigger. Fuller . . .’
‘Hmmm . . .’ Monsieur Joseph mutters. ‘That might make sense . . .’
He’s beginning to consider me more seriously. Pierre nudges his father. ‘Shouldn’t you be writing this down?’
But Monsieur Joseph sits back in his seat, spreading his hands wide on the desk.
‘Let me be clear. You believe that our contraption only gained height with air inside the bag.’
‘Yes.’
‘Yet once the air seeped out again, height was quickly lost . . .’ He stops. Looks suddenly very intense. ‘Were you alone that day, Magpie? It’s important our prototype stays an absolute secret. If any of what happened gets out—’
‘I’m not a spy, if that’s what you mean,’ I say, sharp as you like.
The study door swings open. In strides a man I’ve never seen before, so tall and wide and strong as a tree that everything else in the room seems to shrink, me included.
‘Who’s he?’ I mouth to Pierre.
‘My uncle, Monsieur Etienne, Papa’s brother,’ he whispers and pulls a face.
‘You’re quizzing our guest, I see,’ Monsieur Etienne says, his gaze sliding over me.
I give him a quick once-over too but can’t find the family resemblance. There’s no kind face here, no worried brow. This Montgolfier’s all swagger and confidence. I bet he’d not give up on the prototype so fast, either.
‘Magpie’s just been sharing her account of the flight,’ Monsieur Joseph explains. ‘I confess it’s worth hearing.’
I’m ready to keep going, but Monsieur Etienne tuts irritably. ‘I realize girls can be clever, dear brother, but with all due respect, girls like Magpie don’t even have an education. Let’s not involve her in the finer details of our invention, eh?’
It’s true: I can’t read or write. But I’m far from stupid. Though I haven’t got a gob full of fancy words to describe what happened that day, I was there. I was part of it. And I’ve a few more ‘finer details’ to share.
‘It was the wind that kept your air bag moving,’ I say, before he can stop me. ‘You’ll need to weigh it down a bit to give it more direction. Get the weight right and it’ll go higher and be more steady.’
I see the look Monsieur Etienne gives Monsieur Joseph. It’s frustrating but I keep going.
‘Think about it,’ I tell them. ‘When it was me and Pierre hanging on, it only went so high. Then when he . . .’
‘Fell off.’ Pierre grimaces.
‘. . . well, on my own I travelled further and higher.’
Monsieur Etienne folds his arms. ‘Are we that desperate in our research that we’re now relying on your word? What on earth can a child – especially one like you – know about the mechanics of flight?’
‘I don’t know anything, monsieur,’ I mutter, feeling my face go hot. ‘Only what happened to me.’
‘That’s the point, Etienne,’ Monsieur Joseph says. ‘At this moment in time, neither do we. What we’ve been doing isn’t working. I’m not convinced it ever will.’
‘How do we know we can trust the girl?’ Monsieur Etienne asks. ‘She could be anyone.’
I feel his eyes on me again. Like they’re peeling back the layers and finding a rotten little thief at the core. I don’t like it. Maybe this place isn’t right for me after all. Maybe I should go and face my old life again.
But as I turn to leave, Monsieur Etienne’s quicker.
‘Oh no you don’t.’ He blocks my exit. ‘You think you’re going to run off and take our secrets with you?’
‘I wouldn’t do that!’ I cry.
‘Course she wouldn’t! Pierre agrees.
‘I think we can trust the girl,’ Monsieur Joseph says. ‘Her quick action saved Pierre’s life, after all.’
I’m touched by their loyalty, I really am. It makes me want to prove them right, that I am on their side. And that’s a new sensation too.
Monsieur Etienne, I can tell, isn’t sure about me at all. But there’s a buzz in the room now. Where it’s come from – my account or Monsieur Etienne’s confidence – I don’t know. I just hope there’ll be no more talk of giving up.
‘We’d better get a move on,’ Monsieur Etienne says, as if confirming it. ‘Otherwise the English will beat us to it, and then we’ll be the second inventors of a flying contraption. No one will even remember our names.’
6
As I start work that morning, the Montgolfiers are still hesitating over theirs. Pierre brings me regular updates throughout the day.
‘They’re arguing,’ he tells me. ‘Papa wants to think things over and not rush, Uncle Etienne’s insisting they get a move on.’
I nod because I’m trying to listen and concentrate on the tasks I’ve been given to do. Behind the house is a cobbled yard, and beyond it an orchard, full of olive and cherry trees. It’s here the Montgolfiers keep animals meant for the table, and I’m now the one responsible for feeding them. There are chickens and a goose, and a couple of goats kept for their milk. My favourite is the sweet-faced lamb who likes to nibble people’s toes.
‘I’ve called her Lancelot,’ I tell Pierre.
He pulls a face. ‘Lancelot? For a girl?’
‘Yes, for a girl.’
‘But in the story Lancelot is a man – a brave knight.’
I don’t know what story he’s on about; I’m thinking of the pâtisserie with the chestnut cakes, the ones I’d promised myself once Madame Delacroix had paid me. But I don’t press the point. My arm’s still weak, so having Pierre here is a help for the carrying-buckets part of things. What’s not so good is Voltaire, who I swear is trying to make Coco jealous by sticking close to my ankles. It makes my rooster nervous. Inside his sling I feel his claws twitching, which is a sure sign trouble’s brewing.
It’s Odette who shows me my next job. Thursdays are extra busy, she tells me. Not only is there the usual five-course luncheon to prepare, but it’s also wash day. And Madame Verte runs a very tight household. The housekeeper is small with a sharp chin and sunken mouth that makes her look like she’s just sipped vinegar. She’s possibly the only person in the world Odette is scared of.
‘You’d better get rid of that chicken of yours,’ Odette warns me under her breath. ‘The only animals Madame Verte allows in the kitchen are dead ones for the pot.’
‘Oh, let him stay. He’s no trouble,’ I plead.
Yet, sure enough, the moment Madame Verte spots Coco she asks: ‘Why isn’t that bird plucked yet? It should’ve been in the oven an hour ago.’
Which makes me realize the kitchen’s really not safe for Coco. Back outside he goes. I take him as far as the orchard.
‘Sorry boy,’ I tell him. ‘I’ll save you some decent scraps.’
Without so much as a backwards glance, he struts over to Lancelot. The lamb sniffs his feet, and he quite happily lets her, then settles between her front hooves like she’s the comfiest, cosiest cushion in the world. The rate he falls asleep there is astonishing – far quicker than he nods off in my arms. I try not to be offended.
What Odette hasn’t mentioned about laundry is how much the hot water and lye stings your hands. Nor does she tell me the wash is almost entirely made up of Madame Montgolfier’s undergarments. For both these reasons I get it done as quick as I can.
Odette then informs me it’s started to rain.
‘Hang everything up there.’ She points to a drying rack suspended from the ceiling. It’s close enough to the fire to catch the heat from it, so with arms full of dripping chemises and petticoats and nightgowns, I climb onto a stool to hang the laundry. It’s funny to think I’ve not even clapped eyes on Pierre’s mother, yet here I am handling her most private things.
I’ve just finished when Monsieur Joseph comes into the kitchen, carrying a notebook.
‘I hate to complain, Madame Verte,’ he says, putting the notebook on the table and holding up his hands in defeat. ‘But the porridge at breakfast was a little too hot.’ Monsieur Joseph eats all his meals cold – it’s a household fact, so Pierre told me. Apparently warm food gives his father wind.
Madame Verte listens, stony faced. When he’s gone, she takes her irritation out on me.
‘Who on earth put those wet things up there?’ She’s spotted the undergarments, which to my novice eye are drying nicely.
‘It’s raining, Madame,’ I say.
‘We still peg it out, it never rains for long.’ Madame Verte sighs crossly. ‘Leave it for now. There are dishes that need doing. And next time ask Odette if you’re not sure.’
As I’m cussing Odette for her bad advice, I notice Monsieur Joseph has left his notebook behind. It’s on the kitchen table, temptingly within reach. Perhaps his argument with Monsieur Etienne cleared the air and he has got down to work. Maybe the design for a brand new prototype is here inside this very book!
Once I’m sure Madame Verte isn’t watching, I sneak a quick look. My eyes shoot straight to the pictures. They’re done by the same hand as the others I saw that day in the lane. And just like them they leap from the paper like magic. I flick through page after page of flying creations – oblongs, spheres, one like a teardrop, which seems to be the favourite because Monsieur Joseph’s sketched it a lot. There are plenty of angry crossings out too.
I keep turning the pages.
Then, suddenly, that’s it. The rest of the book is blank. The very last entry is of an oblong shape with ropes in each corner. Recognizing it, my chest tightens. At the end of the ropes dangle a boy and a girl.
Pierre. And me.
There are no notes with the drawing, just one single word that looks like this: Fini.
I don’t know what it means. But I’m sad. All that excitement and wonder, and then – nothing. A dead end. When Madame Delacroix saw the papers that night she thought the Montgolfiers had been busy – she said as much. But that’s just it – they haven’t. There must be something we can do to get them working again.
‘How’s that laundry coming on? First lot dry yet?’ Odette calls from the other side of the kitchen.
‘What? Oh.’ I glance up at the ceiling rack. ‘Almost. Just a bit . . .’
I go silent.
Something bizarre has happened to Madame M’s undergarments. They’re full like a ship’s sail in a storm. And growing bigger right before my eyes! Twitching, wafting – a little upwards, a little sideways – it’s as if they’ve got a life of their own.
Any minute Madame Verte’ll notice and tell me that’s why I should’ve hung the washing outside. But I can’t stop staring. What’s happening is just like the flying contraption in miniature. The garments lift then sink. But there’s a difference. Madame M’s silk chemise is bulging like a sausage skin. Yet the cotton petticoat hanging next to it has hardly moved. Why is this happening? I don’t know much about laundry, but I’m sure it isn’t meant to move by itself.
Grabbing a pencil from the pot on the table, I open the notebook on its next clean page. I draw the stove. The pots. The pans. Then the laundry rack above it. Squinting, I try to guess distances, heights.
‘Magpie!’ Madame Verte barks. ‘What are you up to?’
I start. The notebook slips from my hand to the floor. Ducking down to grab it, I’m too late. A wooden clog rests on top of it.
‘What’s this?’ says Odette.
I lunge at her feet. ‘Don’t!’
Too quick for me, she snatches the book away. ‘Not drawing undergarments, are you?’
I make a grab for the book again.
She grins. ‘You were, weren’t you? Oh, I reckon this is worth sharing.’
I don’t even get the chance to turn pink. There’s a whoosh of air right next to my head and Madame Verte boxes my ears so hard my cap goes flying across the room.
‘This is a kitchen, not an art salon!’ Madame Verte cries.
I know I should be acting sorry, but instead I’m watching Odette. She’s staring at the drying rack, her mouth a funny ‘O’ shape. I follow her gaze. The chemise is now so full it’s lifted off the rack entirely and floats up, before coming to rest against the ceiling.
‘Mon Dieu!’ I’m on tiptoes, amazed. What if there was no ceiling? What if that chemise kept rising up and up into the sky?
Odette though, begins to scream. ‘It’s a ghost! Oh my goodness, a ghost!’
She goes on and on, until Madame Verte sloshes brandy into a glass and tells her to drink it in one gulp. Meanwhile, I’m told to stand on the dresser and poke at the chemise with a broom, until it falls in a grimy heap to the floor. Once she realizes the kitchen isn’t haunted, Odette soon recovers.
‘You’re a stupid little creature,’ she spits at me. ‘You can’t even do the laundry properly.’
I’m rapidly going off her, however hard she works.
‘At least I’m not scared of a chemise,’ I point out.
Odette pinches me hard on the leg.
‘Stop it, the pair of you!’ Madame Verte yells.
The kitchen door opens. Hovering at the top of the steps is Monsieur Etienne, pocket watch in his hand. Madame Verte’s back visibly stiffens.
‘Lunch is rather late today.’ He gestures to the time. ‘We’re quite famished, dear Madame Verte.’
‘We had a few teething problems this morning, Monsieur,’ Madame Verte explains in a simpering voice I’ve not heard her use before.
I’m just thankful the chemise is now soaking in a bucket. Odette, though, can’t keep her gob shut. ‘Magpie’s been drawing things.’
My fist closes around the notebook in my pocket, wishing it was her face.
‘Drawing eh?’ Monsieur Etienne comes on down the steps.
‘Umm . . . not exactly.’ I want to say how the silk had floated upwards when the cotton hadn’t. That the heat of the fire had done something to make it rise. But I don’t know how to explain it. It’s easier just to take out the notebook and show him my sketches, which I do.
‘Do you see how the garments rose up?’ I rush through each drawing, I’m that nervous. ‘It’s because the air’s hot. It must be!’
‘I’ll have my brother’s notebook back, merci,’ he says when I’m done, and lifts it, and all my findings, from my hands. ‘And Madame Verte? Luncheon, please, as quick as you can!’ Then he turns heel and leaves.
I stare after him, frustrated. I’m not convinced he was even listening to me.
Yet on the way back up the stairs when he thinks no one’s looking, he stops and opens the notebook. I’m watching. He’s staring at my pictures. Head tilted, finger tapping the page, he drinks them in. When he’s finished, he looks up, catches my eye and nods. My face warms: I think maybe it’s his way of saying well done.
7
One morning, a week or so later, Pierre catches me whistling as I sweep the yard.
‘What’re you cheery about?’ He takes the broom from me, and gestures for me to sit with him on the wall.
‘I can’t. Madame Verte’ll have my guts for garters,’ I tell him, very firmly taking the broom back again.
He pulls a hurt face. ‘Work more important than your friends now, eh?’
‘It’s not like that,’ I try to explain. ‘Work and friends – they’re both important, it’s not a contest. I don’t want to cause trouble. I like it here. Really like it.’
I could also tell him that, for once, I feel part of something decent and good. All right, so my hands are all blisters and my back aches, but if this is what honest work feels like then I like it. At least you’re not forever looking over your shoulder. Best of all, we’re this close to what could be one of the greatest inventions on earth – if the Montgolfiers get on with it, that is. But I see Pierre’s understood because he’s smiling now.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ he says. Calling Voltaire, the two of them stroll off to read poet
ry or whatever it is they do in the mornings. Out of habit, I scan the yard for Coco. He’d been happily pecking the dust before Pierre and Voltaire arrived. Now he’s nowhere to be seen.
The orchard’s the obvious spot, he’s too lazy to go further. And let’s not forget Lancelot’s there, who he’s taken a real shine to, but I find her all alone under the olive trees.
‘Where’s he gone?’ I ask her. She nuzzles my toes, briefly, politely, then goes back to grazing with little dainty bites. It’s like watching a lady eat cake.
I walk on through the trees to the bottom of the orchard. I’m starting to get annoyed now. I’ve got work to do. If Coco can’t be trusted then he’ll have to stay in the sling.
‘Thought I’d forgotten you, eh?’
Madame Delacroix’s voice makes me freeze mid-step. I spin round. Can’t see where it’s coming from. As she clears her throat, I catch sight of her, back against the orchard wall. She’s got Coco by his heels. She’s holding him upside down so his wings splay out.
‘Put him down,’ I say, low and furious.
I step slowly towards her. I’m fighting the urge to rush and grab him, and scratch her eyes out for good measure. Despite the heat of the day she’s got gloves on again. The leather is dark purplish, like raw liver. She doesn’t move. She’s in charge and knows it. It’s a clever hiding spot she’s chosen because you can’t see it from the house.
Once I’m within snatching distance I hold out my arms. ‘Please, give him to me.’
‘We have a deal, don’t we?’ Madame Delacroix says, ignoring my plea. ‘Has it slipped your mind?’
I don’t answer. I’d tried my best to forget about it, yes, but it’s flooding back now like toothache you’d thought had gone.
‘What d’you want from me? Can’t you just leave me alone?’ I ask, bitterly.
‘I hired you to do a job and that job isn’t finished. You still work for me.’
‘Not any more I don’t.’
‘Now, now, no need to be unfriendly,’ she replies. ‘You agreed to fetch a red leather box. You failed the first time, so you’ll try again.’