Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
Commerce always comes first for a sole trader and Madame Moreau was no different.
She interacted with her customers as usual from her perch behind the counter, while I carried out my work in a daze.
Just before lunch, Geoff popped by for a ‘cheeky eclair’ as he put it and I was never so happy to see anyone in my life.
‘How is my favourite customer today?’ I asked while wiping down his table. Madame Moreau must have wondered whether I was going to share her eerie secret with an outsider, but if she was concerned, she did not show it. Her face was an inscrutable mask.
‘How’s Ruby?’ I asked, craving a normal conversation after the extraordinary events of the morning.
‘She’s having her nails clipped at the salon.’
‘Sorry, what?’
‘It’s a joke!’
‘Oh, of course,’ I said, rubbing my eyes. ‘The early mornings are catching up with me.’
‘That yours?’ he asked, nodding towards my bicycle that was leaning against the gable.
‘Yes,’ I smiled, thinking of how happy I’d been when it arrived.
‘You should take yourself off for a nice spin, clears the head.’
‘You know what, that might not be such a bad idea,’ I said, untying my apron. ‘I might just take an early lunch and see if I can’t cycle my way into a better mood.’
Instead of asking, I simply told Madame Moreau that I was leaving and walked out into the watery sunshine.
I unlocked my bike and cycled over the Pont Solferino and past the train station, searching for some unknown object that might make everything seem normal again.
I took the tow path along the River Oise, with only the sound of my tyres on the gravel to keep me company.
Seeing Monsieur Moreau that morning had brought up some unwelcome thoughts about death and the afterlife.
To think I had come to France to get away from all of that, only to end up coming face to face with a real live, or dead, ghost. Where was his soul, after all?
Trapped in some kind of limbo? I wasn’t sure if I believed in heaven, but I wanted to believe that my mother was happy, wherever she was.
Despite my frustration at being lied to, I couldn’t help but wonder what it must feel like for Madame Moreau to see her father like that, night after night.
I couldn’t imagine seeing my mother in that way: as an echo of herself.
On the one hand, it would be so wonderful to see her again, but to not be able to touch her or speak to her?
I realised that it would be a kind of breathtaking torture.
I wasn’t really sure if I could deal with it.
I mean, I was still in the process of grieving myself.
I pulled hard on the brakes, got off the bike and stood by a nearby bench.
Without thinking about it, I took my phone out of my pocket and I called my dad.
‘How are ya getting on, Edie?’ he greeted me, full of the joys. I could feel the tears stinging my eyes and tried desperately to hold onto them. I was gripping the bench, watching the river rushing by in front of me.
‘I miss her so much, Dad,’ was all I could say, as the tears came in torrents. He said nothing for a while, but from the sounds he made, I felt he was crying, too.
‘Do you want to come home, love?’ he asked eventually, his voice hoarse.
‘Yes,’ I said, snivelling like a little girl who just wanted her father to make everything go away.
‘But it wouldn’t change anything. Besides, I think they need me here.
’ It was a revelation as I said it. I remembered how Manu had told his grandmother I would help them and I realised that despite their air of nonchalance in the bakery that morning, they were struggling somehow.
‘They’re lucky to have you, Edie, you know that,’ Dad said with paternal pride.
‘You know what? You’re right!’ I said, as though suddenly understanding my position in the world.
Maybe it wasn’t my destiny to become a chart-topping singer or a domestic goddess with 2.
4 children and a dog. But I had the ability to make an impact on people’s lives, if only in a small way, just by being myself – and that was enough.
I began cycling back towards the city centre, and stopped at a set of traffic lights where I spotted a jeweller’s on the corner.
Something, perhaps intuition, told me I should go in.
I stepped off the bike and pulled the handlebars up, lifting it onto the pavement before locking it to a railing.
The pretty silver jewellery sparkled in the shop window.
A charm bracelet caught my eye; it had a small Eiffel Tower charm and a little bicycle, too.
Maybe every tourist succumbed to these clichéd trinkets, but I didn’t care.
It immediately put a smile on my face and I knew that could only be a good thing.
I went straight in and bought it for myself.
* * *
That evening, Madame Moreau had me round for dinner. It had begun to rain outside and the temperature had dropped rapidly, so her cosy apartment was a welcome refuge. She had prepared a delicious rabbit stew with lots of comforting root vegetables.
‘Manu ne mange pas avec nous?’ I asked, when I noticed he was not at table.
‘Il sort avec ses amis,’ she said. ‘Your French is improving.’
‘Merci, I’ve always wanted to speak fluent French – that’s why I came here, really,’ I said, enjoying the opportunity to open up to this woman who had kept me at arm’s length since I arrived.
She dished out our meal from a porcelain terrine onto pretty plates with blue flowers, while I poured the wine.
We ate in companionable silence for a time, with only the sound of the ticking clock and the sparking logs in the background.
As I mopped up the sauce with my bread, we spoke about ordinary things like the weather and some of the interesting characters that came into the shop.
She had prepared a delicious tarte Tatin with caramelised apples in cinnamon and, despite my full stomach, I cleaned the bowl.
After we had cleared away the dishes, we moved to the chairs beside the fire once again and I knew it was time to discuss the elephant in the room.
‘You didn’t really need an assistant manager for the shop who spoke English, did you?’ I said, suddenly understanding the motivation behind the job being advertised abroad. ‘You didn’t want anyone from around here finding out about your father and risking them telling anyone.’
‘I never want to upset or frighten anyone, but yes, it was easier to keep the secret that way.
It ‘as been difficult – concealing this. That is why we use the tunnel for the deliveries – that way, I can avoid anyone coming into the basement,’ she explained, solving the other mystery that had me baffled.
‘When my daughter was alive, I did not need any help from the outside. But now, my arthritis is bad and Manu must go to school.’ She shrugged.
‘I’m sorry, I had no idea your daughter had passed away,’ I said genuinely.
Her eyes glistened as she said, ‘No parent should see their child go before them.’ She searched for a tissue in the pocket of her housecoat and wiped her eyes.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I said again, the words sounding so small and insignificant. Now I understood what it was like for my family and friends when they felt so helpless.
‘It was a car accident. Twelve years ago. She and son mari, her husband, were travelling south to Spain, to visit his family. Little Manu, he was sleeping in the back seat.’
It was visibly distressing for her to talk about it, so I stopped her with my hand on her arm and told her it was OK, she didn’t have to explain.
‘I lost my mother – I know it’s hard to talk about it sometimes,’ I said in solidarity. Her face was the picture of empathy; such was the softness of her large brown eyes as she placed her hand on mine.
‘C’est dure la vie, hein?’
She was right about that, life was hard.
In the silence that followed, I understood how my first impressions of Madame Moreau were completely wrong.
I’d interpreted her frosty demeanour as hostile and unfriendly, when in actual fact she was merely doing her best to protect her family and her own peace of mind.
She stood up and went to a tall mahogany dresser and took a photo album out of one of the cupboards.
Sitting back down beside me, she showed me pictures of her daughter from childhood right up until before she died.
‘She would have been just a year or two older than you,’ she told me in a soft voice.
‘Does Manu remember them, at all?’ I asked, but she just shook her head, saying he had only been a baby then.
‘He’s such a bright young man, and a credit to you.’
‘Comment?’ she said, unfamiliar with the term.
‘You have brought him up extremely well,’ I clarified. Then a thought struck me. ‘Your daughter?’
‘Gabrielle, oui?’
‘Did she see your father, too?’ I asked.
‘But of course, it was she who was learning the old methods from him – she was to take over the boulangerie. Not that it matters now,’ she added.
‘Why do you say that? Manu is doing a good job, isn’t he? My father used to work as a pastry chef at home in Ireland, so I know a thing or two about baking, and Manu really has the flair for it.’
‘Ah, yes, I remember this in your application. Manu said it could be useful.’ She smiled proudly at her grandson’s foresight.
‘Oh, I see, so it’s Manu I should thank for giving me the job?’ I said, smiling too.
‘Indeed, but as I am sure you know, small bakeries are not so profitable anymore. People are buying those moche … how you say, horrible sliced breads in the supermarket because they are cheaper and with all those preserves that keep it from going stale for days and days, ugh!’
‘I suppose the cost of living is affecting everything and people are just trying to save money.’
‘Exactement, so they do not buy their fresh bread and croissants every day. Things are becoming very difficult for us here. I don’t know what future there is.
’ She stared into the fire and for the first time since I had known her, she looked tired.
I didn’t want to press her about the small issue of a ghost in the basement, but I couldn’t hide my curiosity either.
‘So, what about your father?’ I asked in as sensitive a tone as possible.
‘Ah, yes, well, you deserve to know the truth now, édith, and I will tell it to you. Mais, I have to start at the very beginning…’