through the glass at the kitchen’s creation.
It was a cathedral, the one that stood upon the hill of Montmartre, slender and towering. The windows were filigree rings, delicate as the halo of an icon, glass stained with brilliant blues and reds, but it was sugar, all sugar. Marzipan arched upward in domes; tiny green and blue almonds took the place of stonework and gargoyles carved from sugar paste perched upon the towers, topped with gold leaf.
Slowly, his awareness returned to the cramped scullery room. He felt Mademoiselle Clermont sigh.
‘The festive season is just glorious,’ she said.
Gui looked at her. Her face was alight with admiration, her fine dress trailing in the puddles, her lace cuffs stained with ink. Beyond her shone the sugar cathedral. The cost of it could have fed a family like his in Bordeaux for a year. Abruptly, he turned away.
The other men were waiting in the cart outside the door. He almost ran to join them, wanting to be away from that place, from the emotion that was weighing on his chest.
‘Guillaume!’ Mademoiselle Clermont was smiling, hanging from the doorway as the cart began to trundle away. ‘Would you like to come back next week?’
Chapter Nine
April 1988
I’m sitting at my desk, watching the sky change colour through the rain. A page of my thesis is wedged into the typewriter, abandoned mid-sentence. The pale evening light falls upon my grandfather’s photograph, propped up next to the scrap of paper handed to me by the curator at the gallery.
During the past week I have tried to my best ignore it, but every time I sit down to write, it prickles at the back of my mind, like a burr that can’t be shifted or ignored. I have been bluffing my way through supervisions and tutorials; have barely done any work. If Whyke has noticed, he hasn’t mentioned it.
I gnaw at one of my nails, already bitten down to the quick. What would Hall be doing, if he’d found the photograph instead of me? And how did he discover anything at all? I thought that I had taken all of Grandpa’s correspondence, personal papers and files when the house was sold. It is all at my mum’s house, neatly stacked in boxes, waiting for me to sort through it properly.
Unless … a horrible thought creeps upon me. Quickly, I pick up the phone and dial a number from memory.
‘2763?’
‘Hi, Mum.’
‘Petra! How are you? Everything OK?’
My mother sounds preoccupied, as though she has been laughing and I’ve interrupted the joke.
‘Yeah, fine,’ I say. ‘I was thinking of coming home tonight. Will you be in?’
‘Of course! Can you afford the fare?’
The question makes me grimace. My funding for the year is running out, and it has to last me another two months. I ignore the question; tell her that I’ll be there for dinner.
I shove some things into a bag, feeling guilty for not mentioning the real reason behind my visit. Maybe I should have asked her about the papers straight out, whether anyone else has been to look at them, but then, she would have wanted to know why. I’m not sure that’s a conversation I’m ready to have.
A minute later I’m rattling through the streets on my bike, trying to convince myself that I’ve got it wrong, that everything will be as I left it. Thankfully, it has stopped raining and the evening feels fresh and clear. As I pedal, some of the fug begins to drain from my head.
I’m still worrying over ‘what ifs’ when I reach London and change stations. The tube is thick with the smell of cigarettes and hairspray; people heading for big nights out in the capital. At Charing Cross I buy my mum a bunch of flowers, and sit with them balanced across my lap as the train slides out towards the suburbs. Eventually, the sign for Staplehurst creeps into view through the grubby window.
My mother’s house is a short walk from the station, and as soon as the lights appear around the corner I feel a welcome rush of calm. I let myself into the garden and stand on
It was a cathedral, the one that stood upon the hill of Montmartre, slender and towering. The windows were filigree rings, delicate as the halo of an icon, glass stained with brilliant blues and reds, but it was sugar, all sugar. Marzipan arched upward in domes; tiny green and blue almonds took the place of stonework and gargoyles carved from sugar paste perched upon the towers, topped with gold leaf.
Slowly, his awareness returned to the cramped scullery room. He felt Mademoiselle Clermont sigh.
‘The festive season is just glorious,’ she said.
Gui looked at her. Her face was alight with admiration, her fine dress trailing in the puddles, her lace cuffs stained with ink. Beyond her shone the sugar cathedral. The cost of it could have fed a family like his in Bordeaux for a year. Abruptly, he turned away.
The other men were waiting in the cart outside the door. He almost ran to join them, wanting to be away from that place, from the emotion that was weighing on his chest.
‘Guillaume!’ Mademoiselle Clermont was smiling, hanging from the doorway as the cart began to trundle away. ‘Would you like to come back next week?’
Chapter Nine
April 1988
I’m sitting at my desk, watching the sky change colour through the rain. A page of my thesis is wedged into the typewriter, abandoned mid-sentence. The pale evening light falls upon my grandfather’s photograph, propped up next to the scrap of paper handed to me by the curator at the gallery.
During the past week I have tried to my best ignore it, but every time I sit down to write, it prickles at the back of my mind, like a burr that can’t be shifted or ignored. I have been bluffing my way through supervisions and tutorials; have barely done any work. If Whyke has noticed, he hasn’t mentioned it.
I gnaw at one of my nails, already bitten down to the quick. What would Hall be doing, if he’d found the photograph instead of me? And how did he discover anything at all? I thought that I had taken all of Grandpa’s correspondence, personal papers and files when the house was sold. It is all at my mum’s house, neatly stacked in boxes, waiting for me to sort through it properly.
Unless … a horrible thought creeps upon me. Quickly, I pick up the phone and dial a number from memory.
‘2763?’
‘Hi, Mum.’
‘Petra! How are you? Everything OK?’
My mother sounds preoccupied, as though she has been laughing and I’ve interrupted the joke.
‘Yeah, fine,’ I say. ‘I was thinking of coming home tonight. Will you be in?’
‘Of course! Can you afford the fare?’
The question makes me grimace. My funding for the year is running out, and it has to last me another two months. I ignore the question; tell her that I’ll be there for dinner.
I shove some things into a bag, feeling guilty for not mentioning the real reason behind my visit. Maybe I should have asked her about the papers straight out, whether anyone else has been to look at them, but then, she would have wanted to know why. I’m not sure that’s a conversation I’m ready to have.
A minute later I’m rattling through the streets on my bike, trying to convince myself that I’ve got it wrong, that everything will be as I left it. Thankfully, it has stopped raining and the evening feels fresh and clear. As I pedal, some of the fug begins to drain from my head.
I’m still worrying over ‘what ifs’ when I reach London and change stations. The tube is thick with the smell of cigarettes and hairspray; people heading for big nights out in the capital. At Charing Cross I buy my mum a bunch of flowers, and sit with them balanced across my lap as the train slides out towards the suburbs. Eventually, the sign for Staplehurst creeps into view through the grubby window.
My mother’s house is a short walk from the station, and as soon as the lights appear around the corner I feel a welcome rush of calm. I let myself into the garden and stand on
Similar Books
