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Chapter Three
The next day at school, Madame Poulet was leading a group discussion. She held these every so often throughout the term, on various topics such as ‘friendship’, ‘kindness’ and ‘dealing with bullying’. This morning the subject was ‘feeling left out’. Madame Poulet was talking about how sometimes you saw people in the playground who looked lonely or did not take part in games. She asked the class why this might be.
‘Please, Madame,’ said Mirabelle, putting up her hand.
‘Yes, Mirabelle?’ said Madame Poulet. Mirabelle was her favourite pupil and she always picked her out first.
‘It’s because they’re shy, isn’t it?’
Madame Poulet nodded approvingly. ‘Well done, Mirabelle, that’s right.’ She wrote SHY in big letters on the whiteboard. ‘Sometimes people want to join in but they can’t because they feel shy, and these are the sort of people who need our help and support.’ She paused. ‘Now, there’s nothing wrong with being shy, I’m not trying to suggest that. But shy people are often lonely. They want to fit in like other people, but they don’t really know how. Now, can anyone tell me what other kind of children might have that problem?’
Several people put up their hand but Madame Poulet squinted until she found Mirabelle’s again.
‘Yes, Mirabelle?’ she said.
‘Children who aren’t normal, Madame.’
Madame Poulet frowned. This was not quite the answer she had been hoping for. ‘What do you mean by that, exactly?’
‘Well,’ said Mirabelle, ‘it’s like my dad says: child prodigies are some of the loneliest children in the world because they’re not allowed to be just normal kids.’
Madame Poulet smiled. ‘Ah, yes!’ she said. ‘I quite agree with your father.’ She addressed the rest of the class. ‘For those of you who don’t know, a child prodigy is a child who’s particularly gifted at something, who shows an unusual talent or ability . . .’ She paused to frown at Madeleine over her spectacles. ‘Now, having talent’s a wonderful thing – let’s be quite clear about that – but not if it sets you apart from other people.’
This remark was probably the least helpful thing anyone could have said to Madeleine just then. She was already afraid that everybody knew what was happening to her in the group. She tried her best not to let it show, although during lunchtime this was practically impossible.
There was still a space waiting at her usual table in the canteen. Madeleine sat down quietly, not meeting anyone’s eye and only half whispering ‘hello’. Nobody seemed to notice – they were all talking among themselves. But as Madeleine listened closer, it soon became clear that she was the main topic of conversation.
It was rather as though Madeleine were an animal at the zoo. No one spoke to her, but instead they all pointed and stared. In minute detail they criticised every aspect of her appearance: her choice of clothing, her hair, even the way she was eating. Madeleine’s plate became a minefield. She avoided certain foods in favour of others, so as not to incur mockery. For some unknown reason, bread seemed to be acceptable, while cheese provoked giggling and fruit reduced everyone to hysterics.
Halfway through lunch, Mirabelle reminded everyone about that morning’s discussion. It was their duty to help Madeleine, she told them. They had to be supportive as a group because she was so painfully shy. Mirabelle said this in a patronising, head-girlish sort of way and then turned to Madeleine, smiling.
‘Well, say something, then!’ she suddenly shouted in her face.
This would normally have made anyone jump, but Madeleine had now become so withdrawn that she just sat there impassively.
‘Er . . . hello, Madeleine?’ said Mirabelle. ‘It’s lunchtime! This is when people usually talk!’
Madeleine remained silent.
‘I know!’ Mirabelle cried. ‘It’s because she doesn’t know what to say! She can’t talk about normal things because she isn’t normal – she’s special!’
A titter went around the table.
‘So come on, Madeleine!’ she said. ‘We’re all giving you a chance. If you can think of something interesting or funny to say, then we might carry on being your friends. Or don’t you want us to be your friends? Would you rather sit here all by yourself?’
This last produced a general gasp, a mixture of fear and delight. Mirabelle had just spoken aloud everyone’s worst fear. Madeleine was trembling. If she tried to speak, her voice would start shaking and there was a serious danger she might cry, but what she wanted to do was shout. She wanted to scream: ‘You know nothing about me! I’m a member of the Underground and I’ve travelled through time! I was nearly eaten by dinosaurs – do you really think I’m frightened of you?!’
Unfortunately, though, she could not say this because it would have been a lie, since compared to these girls, dinosaurs hardly seemed frightening at all. Madeleine stood up, saying she had to go to the bathroom. She immediately regretted it. No one usually announced such a thing; they would just get up and leave the table.
Mirabelle noticed her embarrassment and made sure everyone else did too.
‘Was that it?’ she said, rolling her eyes humorously. ‘Well, that was worth waiting for!’
There was a burst of raucous laughter. A hot flush went up Madeleine’s neck and she walked away with her face burning, feeling everyone’s eyes on her back.
Once she left the canteen she made her way straight to the library, knowing it would be empty at this time. She went to a quiet corner and reached into her pocket, bringing out the midnight-blue box.
Opening it, she found there were only three truffles left. She did not realise how many she must have eaten. Now they would have to be rationed; she would eat just one more and save the other two for tomorrow.
The next moment, Madeleine had stuffed all three truffles into her mouth.
The effect was immediate and powerful. As her teeth bit through the outer shells, the liquid centres spilled out. The sickly sweetness was overpowering and the bitter aftertaste much stronger than before. The intensity of it made her head spin and her legs turn to jelly. Madeleine keeled over, collapsing on to the floor; except that now there was no floor, only a space of pure darkness into which she began to fall.
For how long she was unconscious Madeleine had no idea, but when at last she awoke she found herself lying in a bed. A large wrought silver bed with an ornately patterned frame.
The sheets were icy cold as if they had been frozen, sending a deep chill to her bones.
She did not recognise the room that she was in. It was empty apart from the bed and both the walls and floor appeared to be made of white marble. Opposite her there was a tall window looking out on to the night sky. Beside it there was a door ajar, showing a faint glimmer of light.
Madeleine got out of bed and went over to the doorway to peer through the gap. She looked through it into a long room, like the great hall of a castle. At the far end there was a fireplace with a fire burning in the hearth. Sitting next to it was somebody in a rocking chair. She could only see his legs and shoes, both of which were coloured bright silver. The figure was sitting cross-legged, rocking gently back and forth. But then, quite suddenly, almost as if sensing he was being watched, the figure stood up.
To her relief, however, he did not turn round but went over towards the fire. He bent down, picking up a poker to stoke the glowing coals. His coat was also silver-coloured and sparkled in the firelight. All the while as she watched him, Madeleine had been holding her breath, but she could not do so any longer and let out a gasp. The figure did not move. He remained with his back to her, staring into the flames. There was no telling if he had heard her. Madeleine was just about to creep away when the figure turned round.
He had a face that Madeleine recognised from Madame Bonbon’s shop: the little doll from the display, wi
th the face of a crescent moon.
Now, standing upright, he was the height of a tall man. His skin was ghostly white and covered in thick make-up, with a beauty spot on his cheek and chocolate-coloured lipstick. As she stared at him, his lips curled into a cruel-looking smile.
Madeleine bolted back from the door and jumped into the bed. She burrowed in deep beneath the covers, pretending desperately to be asleep. But through the sheets she could hear the sound of footsteps echoing on the hard marble floor.
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Chapter Four
Many years ago, before any of this happened, when Madame Bonbon was a girl of about Madeleine’s age, she lived in a small village in Provence. It was built high into the hillside atop a crag of jagged stone. Its ramparts looked down over a wide vista below, a view across plains and lavender fields reaching out towards the sea.
Madame Bonbon’s first name was Coco. She was a pretty child, with corkscrew blonde curls and cornflower-blue eyes. She looked rather like a doll and this was also how her parents treated her, dressing her up in charming frocks and putting ribbons in her hair. And, just like a doll, she was not expected to cry. Coco’s parents did not like it when children cried, and if ever she did, they threatened to lock her in the cellar.
The cellar was dank and cold and smelt strongly of mildew. Coco had always been afraid of it. In particular she was scared of something that she had once found down there. It was an old, rusty tin that her father used for keeping nails. Previ0usly it had contained drinking chocolate and showed a picture of a crescent moon against a star-spangled sky. The moon was smiling and had dark eyes that seemed to follow you about the room.
One time when Coco got upset and would not stop crying, her father lifted her up over his shoulder and carried her down the stairs. Then he locked the cellar door and switched off the light.
Coco was kept down there in total darkness for two whole days and nights. After that she never cried again or got angry or upset, but learnt always to appear pretty and charming to her parents. But from behind her smiling mask she began watching them. Coco was very good at watching people and often just from watching them she could tell what they were thinking. She had a knack for finding out people’s secrets, their hidden fears and desires. She knew her father’s desire was to be rich and this is why he squirrelled money away beneath the floorboards of his study. And she knew her mother’s secret wish was to be somewhere far away from both her husband and daughter.
Coco’s house was always dirty, everywhere covered in dust and a thin layer of grime. This was because her mother was too lazy to do any housework, and her father was too mean to afford a proper cleaner. But one day Coco’s father had an ingenious idea: he would adopt a child. A strong, healthy child who could do all their cleaning. He had heard how the government gave away money to the parents of adopted children. Of course, this was intended for the child’s upkeep, but he could steal it for himself and get the child to do all of their housework.
The girl that he chose came from an orphanage in Marseilles. A tall, dark girl called Olive, with strangely coloured eyes that were the exact purple shade of wild lavender.
Coco’s father was not disappointed, for the girl proved hard-working. She swept the carpets, mopped the floors and dusted away the cobwebs. She did the washing and the ironing and changed everyone’s beds. And in return she was given a bedroom the size of a broom cupboard. In fact, it had once been the broom cupboard until Olive cleared it out. And yet, despite this drudgery, Olive scarcely seemed to notice her chores.
That was partly what Coco found so fascinating about Olive. She had been watching her very carefully ever since the day she arrived. She knew that Olive came from an impoverished background. The orphanage was a poor one and reputed to be quite brutal. There was also the story about the girl’s origins: how she had been found abandoned in the port of Marseilles, swaddled in old netting at the bottom of a fishing boat.
Coco had been expecting some kind of guttersnipe, a hardened street child from the slums. Instead she found someone strangely carefree, who seemed not to have any secrets, any hidden fears or desires, except for the fact that she loved to cook.
The first time Olive cooked, Coco’s mother was so overcome that she let out a little cry. ‘Oh my goodness!’ she exclaimed, putting a hand up to her mouth. And then, for the first time in many years, she actually smiled.
After that Olive was asked to cook for them every week, and on these occasions people started dropping by and inviting themselves for supper. They knew that whenever Olive cooked it would be an evening to remember; a time when laughter flowed and friendships were strengthened, and which would leave them feeling things were possible that had not been so before.
As the years passed, stories of this girl and her amazing cookery spread beyond the village to the nearby towns and cities, and even further across France, until eventually they came to the attention of Monsieur Gibier. Monsieur Gibier ran a cookery school in Paris – the most famous cookery school in the world. Monsieur Gibier himself was said to possess the finest taste buds of anyone alive. From a single sip or taste of someone’s cooking, he could tell every ingredient, right down to the last pinch of salt.
As soon as he heard tell of this extraordinary girl in the south, Monsieur Gibier paid her a visit. He sampled some of her cooking and what he tasted so astonished him that it brought tears to his eyes. He told the girl that her cookery was like the silence of an olive grove; like a summer breeze through lavender; like a Provençal sunset, when the sky turns crimson above the dusky blue hills. He said that it was the finest cooking he had ever tasted in his life.
At once he offered her a scholarship. She would have full board and lodging and could leave the village for ever, coming to live instead in the city of Paris. And so it was agreed that Olive would travel up there the following term.
The only problem was how to acquire her foster parents’ permission. On hearing about the scholarship they instantly refused it. The reason they gave was that they did not believe it to be in Olive’s best interests, although the truth was they did not want to lose their miraculous cook. Monsieur Gibier quietly informed them that if they did not let her go, he would report them to the authorities on the charge of adopting a child for slave labour. At once they replied how, on consideration, they thought this would be a wonderful opportunity for Olive and were only too happy to give it their blessing.
To say farewell to everyone in the village, Olive offered to cook one last time. She would prepare an enormous banquet to be laid out in the village square. It would be like a summer fête, with music and dancing going late into the night. Many of the local children volunteered to help set up the banquet, and one of these was Coco.
Coco planned what she would do the moment she heard Olive was leaving. Like her parents, she did not want to see Olive go, although her reasons were quite different. Partly it was the special envy that comes from feeling left behind. But mostly it was because of a unique quality in Olive that she recognised; a spirit of life which burned brightly at the centre of her being, and which Coco knew she had to extinguish. She was going to make sure that Olive never took up her scholarship.
On the night of the banquet she stole quietly into the kitchen while Olive’s back was turned. On the stove a large cauldron of fish stew was bubbling. Olive was busy chopping vegetables. Coco took a jam jar from out of her pocket and unscrewed the lid. Inside were a hundred specimens of a certain locally grown toadstool. It was called the ‘Witch’s Cap’ and was so called on account of its pointed black head, which resembled the traditional hat of a witch. The toadstool’s effects were similar to those of severe food poisoning and were invariably deadly; for it was Coco’s plan to murder the entire village and make it look as if Olive were responsible. Quite what would happen to Olive, Coco was not sure, though she was in no doubt that Olive would lose her scholarship. She would also never be a
llowed to cook professionally again.
Coco had always been obsessed with the Witch’s Cap toadstool. She did not know why but it often featured in her dreams, especially her nightmares. She could not remember when she had first heard about it but, in fact, it was many years ago, during that time when she was locked in the cellar.
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That night she had lain on the cellar floor, huddled into a little ball. She had tried not to make a sound, since in the dark any sound is terrifying, even when it is your own. She had her eyes tight shut, trying desperately to fall asleep, when she suddenly heard a noise. It was the sound of a match flaring, and in the darkness she saw a flame.
The silhouetted form of a woman stood behind it. The woman was about the same size and shape as her mother and so at first Coco’s heart leapt, thinking she was about to be released. Until the woman brought the light up closer to reveal it was not her mother, but the most hideous face she had ever seen. The wispy yellow flame lit it dimly from below, making the vision seem all the more macabre. The skin was deathly pale but smothered in rouge, and the mouth was painted in brightly coloured lipstick. It looked like the face of a long-dead corpse that had been covered in thick make-up. She wore no pointed hat, nor was she carrying a broomstick, and yet Coco had no doubt that she was looking at a witch.
‘Coco?’ said the witch softly. ‘Coco?’ Her voice was dry and faintly rasping.
Coco felt a hand touch her hair and let out a scream.
‘Shh, don’t be afraid,’ said the witch gently. ‘I’m your friend, and I’m here to help you. I’m going to tell you a secret.’
Madame Pamplemousse and the Enchanted Sweet Shop Page 2