Chapter 28
Chapter Twenty-Eight
I set to work the very next day, and began my baking in the afternoons when we were quiet.
Manu had assured me that there would be no one or nothing keeping me company in the basement at that hour, which gave me some crumb of comfort.
Despite my efforts to understand Monsieur Moreau’s residual haunting of the bakery, it didn’t make it any less unnerving to be down there.
‘Do you think your grandmother has forgiven me for the vanillao yet?’ I asked him before he set off for school.
In my most Edith of moments, apparently, I had opened the last remaining bottle of Pierre’s intoxicating elixir.
No one knew where he had sourced this very special ingredient and so they couldn’t make any more.
‘Forgiven? Maybe. Forgotten? Jamais.’
I knew what that meant. Never. I sighed loudly.
‘I’m joking,’ he said, with a playful smile. ‘She said, it is no good having our memories locked up in a bottle. I think she is glad you opened it.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Je te jure,’ he said, crossing his heart. ‘I swear.’
* * *
I bought a portable speaker and began playing some of my old jazz music down there.
I even started learning some French songs and discovered the amazing Josephine Baker.
Over time I noticed myself picking up vocabulary by osmosis and the realisation made me smile.
Sometimes if you just let things happen, rather than trying to force them, they came easier.
I enjoyed baking again and spent the next few afternoons perfecting my flavours.
Down in the basement, I was free to make as much mess as I liked and so I sent clouds of flour puffing towards the ceiling as I tried to get the hang of the old weighing scales.
There was a sort of alchemy to it; combine flour, eggs, butter and sugar, and you’ve got the basis for the most sublime cakes, whose only flavour-limit is your own imagination.
I made peanut butter ones, red-velvet dark-chocolate ones and vanilla white-chocolate ones.
I felt like the Willy Wonka of cupcakes and relished my new role as part of the Moreau baking team.
And it turned out that Dad was right – macarons were not that tricky once you had a good recipe and a bit of confidence in yourself. Baking, it seemed, was a lot like life.
* * *
When Manu finished school the next day, he came down and made a good stab at eating all of my frosting.
‘I tell the other kids at school about your cakes, so maybe they will stop by,’ he said, licking his fingers.
‘That’s great, Manu, let’s hope we have something to offer them when they arrive,’ I said, yanking the bowl away from him. ‘How are you getting on with our website?’
‘We are live tomorrow and already on Instagram we ’ave one hundred and fifty followers!’
Madame Moreau looked blankly at us both.
‘On that, I’m going to need your help, Manu,’ I explained, as I took out my phone and showed him some of the TikTok accounts I’d been following.
Videos featuring preppy home bakers that looked as though they’d been directed by Scorsese and produced by a Hollywood studio were garnering hundreds of thousands of views.
‘I want to create something like this, but on a tiny budget,’ I said.
‘Ah ouais, mais c’est super!’ he enthused and he arrived back later that day with a ring light on a tripod stand and a wireless microphone for me to wear. I didn’t have much by the way of props, but I figured the original ovens as a backdrop were even more authentic than anything I’d seen online.
‘OK,’ I said, as I stood behind a trestle table we’d set up with a gingham tablecloth.
Manu gave me a thumbs-up and began recording on his phone.
I looked down at my ingredients; pale blue ceramic bowls were filled with flour and sugar; a jug of milk and some eggs wobbled on the surface of the table.
‘I, eh … hang on, can we start again?’ I asked, before retying the belt on my apron.
‘Take two,’ Manu said, before pressing the record button again.
‘Welcome to … eh, what are we calling ourselves?’
Manu pressed stop on his phone again and gave me an impatient look. At this rate, we’d be pulling an all-nighter.
‘Compiègne Cupcakes?’ he suggested.
‘OK, it’ll have to do,’ I said, nodding at him to press record again.
‘Hello, everyone, and welcome to Compiègne Cupcakes!’
Manu gave me a big, encouraging smile and so I carried on.
‘So, today, we are going to be making, well, I’m going to be making – baking, I mean. Oh damn!’
‘It’s OK, édith, keep going. We can fix it after,’ he assured me.
But it was a disaster. I kept forgetting to say what ingredients I was adding and my voice was so monotone, I almost put myself to sleep. After I put the batch of cupcakes in the oven, Manu stopped recording and I buried my face into a tea towel.
‘This is rubbish,’ I groaned. ‘I’m crap at this. They make it look so easy!’
Manu sat down beside me.
‘OK, so maybe it’s not parfait?—’
‘Oh, thanks, don’t feel you have to lie to save my feelings or anything,’ I said.
‘You just need to relax a bit. You are too … like a robot,’ he said, performing a robot dance, in case I hadn’t fully understood.
I glared at him.
‘We can stop for tonight, if you like. Finish tomorrow.’
‘No, I want to do the frosting. That’s the best part.’
Baking at home with my dad was usually so much fun. I had the best memories of being in the kitchen with Mum, laughing and singing. That was when it dawned on me.
‘We need music!’ I grabbed my phone and pulled up the Django Reinhart playlist Johnny had sent me.
All of a sudden, it was like I was in my own little world and I hardly even noticed when Manu pressed record.
I was smiling, making jokes and whipping up some of the best-looking cupcakes I’d ever made.
It felt like something magical was happening, as I mixed the butter and the icing sugar and swayed to the rhythm.
I was finding my flow. It just felt right.
Everything was coming together in a way I hadn’t anticipated.
I stopped being so nervous about it and by the end, I felt like my real personality had come out of hiding.
‘You’re a natural,’ Manu says. ‘
‘I kind of am, aren’t I? I laughed. I was really enjoying myself. For the first time in my life, I felt like I was starting to shine.
‘I knew you would help us,’ Manu said as we began to clear up. It was a rare moment of openness and out of Madame Moreau’s earshot.
‘How did you know that?’ I said, rinsing out a cloth before wiping down the surfaces.
‘Because you are alone, too,’ he replied simply.
‘Eh, that’s not really a compliment, Manu,’ I stuttered. ‘I thought you were going to say something like, “You have kind eyes.”’
‘Well, no – I mean, of course you do,’ he explained, backtracking, ‘but you see, we’re lucky that no one else found you before we did.’ He was happy with this cockeyed explanation, although it made me sound like a stray dog.
It was at that point I decided to give him a butter cream facemask.
‘Mon Dieu, my English is not so good,’ he said, wiping the frosting off his face. ‘Family is important for you, I see that. So, I am glad you are part of ours.’
* * *
Manu’s little PR trick paid off, and that afternoon the boulangerie was crammed with students from the local lycée, all curious to try out les gateaux irlandaises.
It was a roaring success and Madame Moreau was visibly pleased to see such a young clientele livening up the place.
Still, I knew we would have to keep up the momentum if this was going to make any impact on the business plan for the bank.
The following morning I went to the printers to pick up our new loyalty cards, offering a free croissant when you bought five, or a free baguette.
They were a bit gimmicky, but at least it showed the boulangerie’s customers that we were moving with the times and planning to stick around.
‘I take it this is your input,’ Geoff remarked, when he and Ruby stopped by for their weekly treat.
‘Well, you know you can’t stand still in business,’ I said, not entirely sure of what I meant.
‘Looks like it’s cupcakes for us today, Ruby,’ he said, and the terrier lifted her paw on cue.