Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
I woke to the sound of my phone buzzing with a simple message.
I’ll be back in Compiègne next week, Hugo x
My stomach performed a backflip that left me unsure whether I was excited or terrified, or both.
If I was being honest, I had pushed any thoughts of him to the back of my mind since my evening with Madame Moreau.
Her tragic story had affected me deeply and raised a lot of issues surrounding my own mother’s passing.
I now found myself feeling unutterably grateful for the time Mum and I had had together; all those close hours sharing each other’s likes and dislikes, singing songs and eating cake.
I realised how privileged we all were as a family to have shared such a wonderful life together, and even when I thought of her lying on her deathbed, I could no longer experience the grief of loss without it being tempered by gratitude for having shared so many precious years with my mother.
I knew Madame Moreau’s story held far more pain and terror than she had revealed.
Not only had she lost her parents, but she had lost her culture as well.
She grew up as a French girl, daughter to the local baker, and was never again to speak about her Roma heritage.
I didn’t want to keep bombarding her with questions of the past, so I began doing some research of my own.
The ‘Porajmos’ as some called it, or the Romani Holocaust, was responsible for the near annihilation of the Roma population in Europe, killing hundreds of thousands of people.
Just as Madame Moreau had said, I discovered that there had been an internment camp in Compiègne, used for members of the resistance as well as Roma and Jews, before sending them on to camps such as Auschwitz.
It made for horrifying reading, but to know someone who had lived through that time, who was now about to lose everything she had fought for to some greedy developers?
Well, I simply couldn’t let that happen.
* * *
‘I’ve got to find a USP, you know?’ I said to Dad later that night on the phone.
‘A what now?’ he said, confused.
‘A Unique Selling Point! Come on, Dad, get with the programme. I just thought, with all your expertise, you might be able to think of something that would get the business going again and attract new customers,’ I explained.
We had already discussed the shift from baguettes to supermarket sliced bread and the ailing European economy.
‘Loyalty cards are always a nice incentive for the regulars,’ he began, clearly happy to be asked for his opinion.
‘Yes, I was thinking that, too,’ I agreed, jotting down the first bullet point in my notebook, ‘but I’m not sure if that’s going to move the needle. We need something more imaginative.’
‘You did say it’s a bit of a touristy place, yeah?’
‘Yes, lots of Brits come here, and people come here from Paris, too, at the weekends,’ I said.
‘Let’s see.’ He took a sharp inhale. ‘Right, well it is France,’ he began.
‘Yes, we’ve established that,’ I sighed with impatience, staring up at the discoloured ceiling of my room. The whole place needed a revamp, but there was no budget for anything like that.
‘So, there’s no point in competing with the finer patisseries,’ he continued.
‘No, I suppose not.’
‘Well, then, I think the best you can do in the short term is to bring a bit of fun to the shop front window – entice the customers in, you know. So I’d say cupcakes. Your only man.’
‘Huh?’ I felt a bit deflated that this was his big plan for saving the bakery. ‘Aren’t cupcakes a bit, well, passé?’
‘That’s like saying the Victoria Sponge has gone out of style! Some things will always sell and it sounds like that’s what you need right now – cash in the till.’
‘I don’t really think Moreau’s is a cupcake kind of place,’ I said uncertainly.
‘It’s a gimmick, right enough, but there’s good business sense behind it. You’ll earn a bigger return for minimal expenditure. Go on, Google it now while I’m talking to you.’
‘OK,’ I sighed, failing to keep the unenthusiastic tone out of my voice.
‘Oh, hang on,’ I said, my spirits lifting.
As I scrolled down the screen, I found rows and rows of images featuring the most decadent cupcakes I’d ever seen.
Tiny macarons in every colour of the rainbow sat like little confectionery hats on top of cupcakes sprayed with gold and sprinkled in coconut snowdrifts, even entire cakes covered in macarons. ‘Wow, these actually look amazing.’
‘You’re welcome,’ he said and I could almost hear his smug grin.
‘It could work, but I dunno, Dad. I’d have to make these myself and I only ever baked at home,’ I said, doubtfully.
‘Don’t worry, love, I’ll give you the perfect recipe. Just give it a few practice runs and you’ll get the hang of it.’
‘Seriously though, you think I could do it?’ I asked.
‘Sure, weren’t you taught by the best in the business?’
I laughed despite myself, then thought of Monsieur Moreau. Suddenly, family legacy seemed far more important than I ever realised.
‘Look,’ he said, with a more serious tone.
‘Do I think you can save a business in debt and keep a roof over your boss’s head?
I don’t know, Edie. But do I think you can get more punters in the door with colourful cupcakes?
Absolutely!’ he boomed with the deep baritone voice that had always kept his sous-chefs on their toes. ‘She’s lucky to have you on her side.’
That was all the moral support I needed.
He was right, it was a start. And in the meantime, I would try to come up with some sort of long-term business plan that Madame Moreau could take to the bank. I decided to start right away and make use of the kitchen while the bakery was closed for the afternoon.
* * *
The next day, I asked Madame Moreau and Manu to have lunch with me in the shop after we closed.
It felt quite nice, the three of us sitting together.
Madame Moreau had prepared a tasty chicken-liver paté and served it with a green salad and of course, sourdough bread.
Manu was visibly more relaxed than I had ever seen him and he talked animatedly about the future – the day he would finish completely with school and work full-time in the bakery.
‘Not until you complete your baccalauréat!’ Madame Moreau rhymed off, as if this was an habitual argument they had. Having heard about her own lack of formal education, I could understand her vehemence, but Manu was obviously keen to become the next Monsieur Moreau.
‘Right, order – I call order!’ I shouted to get their attention. ‘I’ve been trying to think of ways we can drum up more business. I’ve been talking to my father, and we were thinking of maybe targeting the tourists with some high-end macaron cupcakes?’
I half expected tumbleweed to blow through the shop, such was their lack of enthusiasm.
‘I don’t bake cupcakes,’ Manu answered eventually.
‘Well that’s just it, I’ll be making them!’
Another drawn-out silence followed.
‘Maybe it’s better if I show you.’
I went to the kitchen and opened the cupboard where I’d stored the cupcakes I’d made earlier.
I had found my inspiration in Pierre’s recipe book.
Macarons. A delicate sweet snack, made of simple ingredients but needing a bit of patience to make.
Having scoured Instagram for ideas, I had decided to merge my father’s cupcake notion with something a bit more chic.
I lifted the glass cake cover from the plate like a waiter lifting a cloche.
‘I present to you vanilla cupcakes with a white-chocolate buttercream filling, topped with gold-leaf macarons and a Baileys ganache.’
Their eyes, wider than dinner plates, said it all.
‘Where did you get these?’ Madame Moreau asked.
‘I made them, of course!’
I gave them a detailed overview of the process as they ate.
Following Pierre’s instructions, I had gathered my ingredients and began by whisking egg whites to stiff peaks.
Then, the recipe suggested an Italian meringue for a glossy appearance, by heating a mixture of water and caster sugar.
At this point, I poured the mixture into the egg whites and gently folded in almond flour and sugar.
Then came the tricky part! I cut out a rectangle of parchment paper and traced circles using a small glass.
Once I had a piping bag filled with the mixture, I tried to make twenty identical macarons.
The recipe said to let them sit in order to finish spreading and get on with making the filling.
I decided to add a bit of Irish flair and make a Baileys ganache by heating some cream and Baileys in a small saucepan, then adding chopped white chocolate and letting it melt.
I checked the temperature of the oven and wiped my brow with the back of my hand.
I hadn’t noticed it happening, but at some point along the way, I had started to really enjoy myself.
It felt so good to be creating something and adding my own flair to it.
The final ingredient – three drops of vanillao bean liqueur – and I spread the mixture on the cooled macarons.
I could see by their expressions that I had gone up in their estimations.
‘Not bad, eh?’ I said, peeling the paper off one and biting into it. ‘I think if we stick these in the window, we might bring in some new customers,’ I explained, munching all the way.
‘I had no idea you could bake like this, édith,’ Madame Moreau marvelled.
‘It’s all thanks to this recipe book,’ I said, taking the red notebook out of my back pocket.
Madame Moreau’s features froze.
‘Where did you get that?’ she asked.
‘I-I found it,’ I said, feeling as though I had just put my foot in it again. ‘It was hidden under a floorboard in my room.’ I looked at Manu who shrugged his shoulders. Clearly, he was just as clueless as I was.
I looked down at my hands, holding fast to the notebook. Why hadn’t I told Madame Moreau about it before? Had I been too immersed in her story and my efforts to turn the bakery’s fortunes around? I should have realised how important this family heirloom would be to her.
She reached out her open hands for me to give it to her. She touched it like it was a priceless artefact, turning it this way and that. Once she opened the cover and saw the handwriting within, her hand went to her mouth.
‘I remember when he wrote this,’ she said, tenderly caressing the recipe book. ‘He filled it with all of my favourite recipes. It was after my mother?—’
‘I’m sorry, I should have told you about it sooner,’ I said, but she batted away my apology.
‘I hid the notebook myself,’ she said. ‘I must have left it there and forgotten about it.’
‘I didn’t even know who Pierre was when I found it,’ I said, although it didn’t seem as though Madame Moreau was even listening.
‘It’s the strangest thing,’ she said. ‘As I was eating your cupcake, I remembered something that I haven’t thought about for a very long time.’
I bit my lip. So it’s not just me, I thought to myself.
‘I once asked Pierre what I should do with all of this love in my heart for Maman; love that now had nowhere to go.’
My own heart juddered at her childhood question and for a moment I felt like I couldn’t breathe.
‘He told me that the love you have in your heart for someone you cannot be with is never a burden to be carried. It is a gift, he said. A gift you can share in other ways.’
‘How?’ Manu asked, speaking for the first time since we’d sat down to eat.
‘Well, for him, it meant he put all of his love into his recipes and baked them for the people of Compiègne. He said it was so that everyone may know love.’
‘That’s beautiful,’ I said, wiping away a stray tear with my apron.
‘I like them,’ Manu said. ‘They remind me of my maman.’
Another memory? I wondered. That was it. I had to say something. I got up and fetched the special ingredient out of the cupboard.
‘Is there something I should know about this?’