Chapter 34
Chapter Thirty-Four
Time had not made living in a haunted bakery any less unsettling.
Every night before bed, I found myself wedging a chair against the door, despite the fact that everyone knows ghosts can quite easily pass through walls.
Even the wine didn’t help me to sleep that night, as I tossed and turned thinking about the presentation of our business plan to the bank the following day.
Of course I couldn’t go – partly because my limited French wouldn’t lend itself to a financial meeting with the bank manager, but mostly because I wasn’t a stakeholder, just an employee.
Manu was too young, and so it was left to Madame Moreau to convince the bank that we had a plan to increase the bottom line and the means to service the loan.
I despaired of our chances, because while Madame Moreau was very business-savvy in the bakery, her presentation skills were non-existent.
At some point during the night, I found myself on trial, surrounded by a lot of angry faces shouting at me in French.
They seemed to be blaming me for something, but I couldn’t quite make out what.
‘No, you’ve made a mistake – I’m not Joan of Arc!
’ I kept pleading, but it was no good. A line of red macarons with gargoyle faces led me to the stake, where the fiery flames licked the wooden logs and cake pops chanted ‘burn her’ in unison.
I woke up from my confectionery nightmare, screaming my innocence.
The dark, empty room just stared back at me, finally convinced of my lunacy.
I refused point-blank to risk falling back into that weird dream, so I gave up on sleep and tottered downstairs for a hot chocolate, just as I had done all those weeks ago when I first ‘met’ Monsieur Moreau.
I almost tripped over myself with fright when I saw Manu sitting at the counter.
‘Good grief, you frightened the life out of me!’ I cried.
‘Desolé – sorry,’ he said.
‘What are you doing down here?’
‘I couldn’t sleep.’
‘I know the feeling.’ I ruffled his bed hair. ‘Do you want a hot chocolate? We could use some of Pierre’s secret ingredient,’ I said, in a playful voice, as though we were two kids having a midnight feast.
He shrugged and decided it couldn’t hurt.
I put on some milk to boil and got out the packet of marshmallows from the cupboard.
I had a feeling our chat would require marshmallows and cream.
When I presented him with his drink, he smiled gratefully and bobbed the marshmallows into the cup with his finger.
‘?a va?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know. If we are not successful tomorrow, maybe we lose the shop, our home, too,’ he said, and sighed.
‘Look, I’m worried, too, but we’ve got to be positive,’ I said, more out of instinct than anything else. I didn’t want to give him false hope, but what else can you say?
‘Merci, édith, for all your help,’ he said, raising his cup to me.
‘De rien,’ I said, ‘I’m hardly Joan of Arc, am I?’ I joked, my psychedelic nightmare still fresh in my mind.
‘You gave Grandmère hope again … and me, too. Sometimes it was difficile to live with the secret – of Great-Grandpère. Grandmère, she does not trust many people, so when you came, well, tu as tout changée.’
‘Well, I hope I’ve changed things for the better, but we won’t be sure till tomorrow,’ I said. ‘But listen, Manu, no matter what happens, you are such a talented apprentice. Please promise me you will build on Monsieur Moreau’s legacy?’
He nodded, quite satisfied with the compliment.
He was looking better already and I felt much more at ease with everything.
I looked down at the dark, chocolatey liquid in my cup and realised that I hadn’t had any long-forgotten memory.
I just felt better. I looked up at Manu and realised that he was thinking the same thing.
‘The potion is losing its magic,’ he said, in perfect English.
‘Wait a second, have you read Proust? Because I could swear that’s a quote from his book!’
He gave his usual shrug, which told me nothing at all, then checked the time and decided he should get downstairs and start the ovens.
‘I’ll come with you,’ I said, somewhat hesitantly. ‘We’ll let your grandmother lie in – she has a big day today.’
* * *
Despite my own misgivings, working with the spirit of Monsieur Moreau was not the terrifying experience I feared it would be.
In fact, there was something reassuring about his presence there – a timelessness that made you feel as though life could carry on, regardless of all the change in the world.
Still, I did my best to tiptoe around the general area where he stood – although, to be exact, his feet never actually touched the ground.
It was hard work, filling the mixing troughs with industrial amounts of flour, mixing the water and yeast at just the right temperatures.
For a skinny teenager, Manu wrestled the dough like a prize-fighting champion, pounding it into submission.
I floured all the tins and kept an eye on the fire, adding logs when necessary.
It was quite moving to see the two bakers, Pierre and Manu, working side by side and it brought a tear to my eye to think that they had never met, not properly anyway, but still shared this family legacy.
If only I could have told people about this; they would have been queuing around the block.
But it was impossible and, just as Madame Moreau had said, he would not be there for much longer.
I noticed his light flicker and go out a little sooner than the last time I was there.
I could sense Manu’s disappointment when he turned to me and said, ‘Il est parti,’ in a resigned tone.
We opened up the shop and after Manu left with the deliveries, I coped quite well with the morning’s brisk trade. Madame Moreau came downstairs just before nine, wearing a dark navy skirt and jacket and a bright string of pearls at her neck.
‘Bonne chance!’ I shouted after her, as she made her way primly out the door.
I knew she was anxious; their entire future rested upon this meeting, and I quietly prayed to God it would go her way.
Still, there wasn’t much time to brood. At around eleven, Geoff passed by the window with about a dozen tourists in tow.
My heart soared, watching him gather them in, like wayward sheep.
‘We’ve come for our packed lunches, Mademoiselle!
’ he called from the door. ‘It’s such a beautiful day, we’ve decided to have a good old-fashioned picnic in the woods.
’ He told me his group was more than happy to pay top dollar for our artisan bread.
‘They want an authentic French picnic, so load her up!’ he said, presenting me with a giant wicker basket.
I proceeded to cut thick slices of rustic baguette and stuff them with paté or cheese as required.
While I placed the tasty-looking sandwiches along with some patisseries in a picnic basket, Geoff held court in the middle of the floor and eloquently told the story of Django Reinhardt’s visit to Compiègne and his connection to the proprietor, Geneviève Moreau.
His group took photos to post on Instagram and gazed inquisitively at the large framed photo of the gypsy guitarist behind the counter.
I mouthed a very big thank you to Geoff and was rewarded with that nonchalant wink of his that said, nothing is a problem.
‘I’ll be bringing another tour in the evening for coffee and a bun, so save some cupcakes for me, won’t you?’
‘I will be your own personal cupcake factory if you keep bringing in the punters like this!’ I beamed. For the first time, I really believed we could make this work.
Then Madame Moreau returned.
* * *
‘I can’t believe it,’ I repeated for the hundredth time. ‘Did you show them our projections?’ I could see that Madame Moreau was weary from answering my questions, but I did not cease asking them.
‘I told you, édith, it is just a drop in the ocean. I have been missing my payments for some time now, and these projections will only cover the interest on the loans. They want a lump sum now, before they will even consider a restructuring of the loans.’
It seemed unthinkable, but I felt that Madame Moreau was not as upset as I was about the news.
‘You look like you’re just giving up,’ I said.
‘And what would you have me do, édith, chain myself to the door and refuse to sell?’
‘Well, yes! Where is your fighting spirit?’ I asked.
‘I’m old, édith, and I’m tired. I don’t want to fight anymore. They are offering me a little apartment in the suburbs. At least Manu and I will have a home,’ she said, slipping off her leather court shoes and climbing the stairs.
My heart sank and all of my hopes with it.
The more I thought about it, the more I started to wonder if it wasn’t the bakery I was trying to save, but myself.
I just couldn’t let it go. I texted Nicole with the news and she replied with a simple ‘I’m on it’.
I had no idea what she was on, but I hoped it would happen soon.