Chapter 32
Chapter Thirty-Two
‘When the Second World War broke out, the original quintet was on tour in the United Kingdom,’ Madame Moreau explained.
‘Django returned to Paris at once, but Stéphane Grappelli, the violinist, remained in England.
Django had word that my mother and I were living ‘ere with Monsieur Moreau and so he came by one evening to visit us. Some friends of Monsieur Moreau’s heard that he was staying with us and came by to ‘ear him play. You understand, at that time, there was very little to celebrate, so that evening stands out in my memory like it was yesterday,’ she said, with a fondness in her voice.
‘Still today the Romani are treated as outcasts. When the Industrial Revolution began, our way of life and our craftsmanship were belittled. Our nomadic lifestyle no longer fitted in with the rest of society and the struggle continues even now.’
And so it was once more, I thought to myself. They were being cast aside in the name of capitalism as a useless family bakery with an apartment overhead, not making enough money to be considered financially viable.
‘There’s got to be a way to save the bakery,’ I said, turning off the music and bringing everyone’s attention back to our true purpose.
‘I remember Django complimenting Monsieur Moreau on his bakery, saying that you could taste his heart in every baguette! In fact, he joked that we should send deliveries of bread to Germany, that Moreau’s bread would melt the stoniest of hearts.’ Madame Moreau was still lost in her memories.
‘Well, I think we have our answer right here,’ Johnny said, looking at us all as though we were blind.
‘Django Reinhardt, one of France’s best loved musicians, came to his cousin’s bakery during the Second World War to play an impromptu concert for the locals and declared Moreau’s the best baguette in all of France.
I mean, you couldn’t make up a better marketing campaign! ’
‘Really?’ asked Madame Moreau, looking doubtful.
‘Of course! Do you have any idea what a big deal that is? Especially for musicians like me,’ he said. ‘It’s easy, all we have to do is put some photos up, maybe display an old guitar and the story of the night he played here.’
‘Actually, you might be onto something there,’ I said, picking up the thread.
‘Geoff, you know, the tour guide? He would love any story that connects to the war. He could bring all his expat tours here!’ I was so pleased because, despite my misgivings, we actually had something of a plan. ‘What do you think, Johnny?’
‘Absolutely, I’ll mention it to him tomorrow.’
‘Unless you don’t want us taking advantage of your connection to Django?’ I said to Madame Moreau, just in case we were getting ahead of ourselves. I knew how much she guarded her privacy.
‘Tu plaisantes? That cheeky musician won money from my father plenty of times playing billiards. I think he would be happy to ‘elp his little cousin,’ she smiled. ‘It is a marvellous idea.’
‘And if you like, I could play here at the weekend, create a bit of an atmosphere,’ Johnny suggested. ‘You’ll sing, Edie, right?’
I audibly gulped.
‘M-hmm,’ I mumbled, a frozen smile plastered on my face.
What had I gotten myself into now?
* * *
We all had our jobs to do the following week and I started by revisiting the printers and designing new flyers to give to Geoff, the local hotels and the tourist office.
I was able to find a black-and-white photograph online of Django Reinhardt, playing guitar with his crippled hand – which was quite remarkable.
He sported a thin moustache and slicked-back hair.
He had a mischievous look about him, just as Madame Moreau had said, and she was delighted to see her long-lost cousin helping to bring new customers to her bakery.
I found a beautiful antique frame at the market and had another photo printed to hang in the shop, just beside the front door.
Johnny sourced a very old-looking guitar that we hung behind the counter, and just below it I hung a poster detailing the events of the night Django Reinhardt played at La Boulangerie et Patisserie de Compiègne.
I felt such a renewed sense of optimism about our plan that I was sure the bank would change their minds about the bakery’s future.
Manu helped me to translate a cover letter into French and we polished up the business plan that Monsieur Legrand had given me.
Despite my hopefulness, there was no way to predict what would happen or how the public would respond to our ideas.
All I knew was, Madame Moreau could not be kicked out of her home – she could not leave her father, and Manu’s future was riding on our plan’s success.
Still, there was one issue I couldn’t fix: Hugo.
Seeing him in the bakery that day was so unexpected.
I thought he had come to surprise me; take me out to lunch or ask me to dinner.
I never imagined for a moment that he was part of the problem that was pushing Madame Moreau out of her home.
Even though I didn’t like admitting it to myself, I had quietly been building up my hopes and expectations around him.
I had never felt that way about anyone before, and even though our time together had been short, I was able to open up to him in a way that came so natural to me.
Now, that only felt like a betrayal. And that should have been enough for me to turn my back on him, but I couldn’t.
I checked out Chadwick Holdings online and discovered that Hugo Chadwick had only held the position of COO for eighteen months.
He had said that his brother had died five years before, so I started to wonder why he had only now taken over as second-in-command to the CEO, his father.
Their website was a tribute to sterile buildings of glass and chrome, boasting high yields on investments with an international portfolio.
It just didn’t add up. The man I met and even sang to on a bench beside the river that night was deceptively shy and spoke at length about his love of photography.
His boyish charm convinced me that he had the heart of a bohemian beating beneath his tailored suit.
Walking back to the bakery and armed with flyers, posters and little black-and-white postcards that Johnny thought might sell, I almost tripped over him as I turned the corner.
‘Hugo, what are you doing here?’ I said, trying my hardest to sound displeased at his presence.
‘Can I help you with your things?’ he asked politely but without smiling.
‘No, thank you, I can manage fine on my own. Besides, I don’t think you’d be welcome inside, do you?’
‘Just give me the opportunity to explain, Edith. You can give me that much at least,’ he said.
I considered it and figured there was nothing to lose by hearing him out.
‘Just let me drop these inside,’ I said rather coolly.
* * *
We walked to a café near the main square and sat at a table outside. The day was fine and bright, if a little chilly. When the waiter served us our coffees, I looked at Hugo expectantly.
‘How are you?’ he asked, again with a strained politeness.
‘How am I? You asked me here so you could explain yourself. Explain!’
‘Right, OK, straight to the point, then.’
‘If it’s not too much trouble.’
‘Edith, like I told you, my brother passed away some years ago. My uncle took his place in the family business after that and grew it into the company it is today.’
‘You must be so proud,’ I said with a saccharine smile.
‘I know what you must think, Edith, that we’re the bad guys, but you’re wrong.’
‘Oh, I’m wrong now, am I?’ I got up to leave, but he grabbed my hand.
‘Please, just let me finish.’
I sat back down and nodded for him to continue.
‘My uncle, he was taken ill some months ago, and my father decided that I must step into his role. I never wanted anything to do with the business. My father’s original plan was that my brother should succeed him, not me.
I was never the son he wanted me to be; I let him down.
I ran away and, well, let’s just say our differences were never resolved.
’ He had been stirring his coffee up to this point, but now he gulped it down as though it were brandy.
‘Edith, if you only understood the responsibility that rests on my shoulders; I can’t let my father down again. ’
There were so many things I wanted to say, but the one thing that kept bugging me was why he’d concealed the truth in the first place.
‘Why did you lie to me? What about your photography? All those pictures of the traditional shopfronts, the very thing you are trying to destroy… It just doesn’t make any sense!
You knew that I lived and worked at the bakery.
Was it all some kind of joke? How could you have kept all this from me?
’ I suddenly realised that I was talking as if I was his girlfriend and felt my cheeks begin to burn.
‘I mean, I know we don’t owe each other anything, but the least I had hoped for was the truth. ’
‘I never meant to lie and I didn’t lie about the photography. But it’s not exactly a career, is it? This is real life and you have to make compromises.’
‘Is that your father talking or you?’ I asked. I got up to leave. ‘You’re a fraud, Hugo Chadwick.’ His features changed dramatically and I suddenly wished I could take the words back.
‘It’s time to face reality, Edith, the bakery is going to default and Madame Moreau would be much better off accepting our offer and finding a nice little flat outside of town somewhere.
Or perhaps you’d rather stay on your moral high ground and see her end up on the street when the bank forecloses, is that it? ’
I was shocked into absolute silence. I couldn’t believe he could be so hurtful and cruel and I could feel the tears start to sting my eyes as I got up to leave.
‘Don’t worry, I won’t stop you this time,’ he said, looking down at his feet.
‘Well, thanks for explaining your motives, Hugo,’ I said, my voice trembling, ‘you’ve made things a lot clearer for me.’
I walked away and as soon as I turned a corner, the tears began to fall.