Read Online The Confectioner's Tale by Laura Madeleine - Free Book Online
Authors: Laura Madeleine
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tell he’s bluffing. ‘What’s that?’
‘Just a place I saw in a photograph once.’ I take a sip of my drink.
Hall is on his feet. ‘A photograph? Where? I haven’t seen one.’
I shrug, relishing his confusion.
‘Can’t remember.’
It is Hall’s turn to be angry. He knows that I’m lying, and leans across the table towards me, features twisting. My mother appears in the doorway with a bowl of crackers and he pulls back sharply. Fuming, he shrugs himself into a blazer and collects his notebooks.
‘Thank you so much, Mrs Stevenson,’ he gushes to my mother. ‘I must get out of your hair now. Petra, I’m sure we’ll speak again.’
Then he is gone, and all that is left is the buzzing of nerves in my head. I desperately want to look through the papers on the table, but my mum is steering me into the kitchen. I realize that I am ravenous, and soon, a plate of sausages and buttery mashed potato eclipses all other worries. My mum has opened a bottle of red wine and the kitchen is warm and cosy.
I almost forget about Hall and the photograph and my grandfather as I sit, sleepy and full in front of the television. The phone rings before midnight; it is my dad. My mum tries to hand me the phone, but I just shake my head, escape upstairs. I hear her sigh as I walk away. I know she thinks I’m being stubborn, but I still can’t bring myself to speak to him.
We were never friendly after the divorce, and weren’t even that close before. He’s a journalist, and was always away from home, but it all got worse when he started working for the tabloids. I didn’t really understand at the time. I only knew that Grandpa disapproved, that my mum was unhappy and that my dad was around less and less.
Then came the fights, the divorce proceedings and the long afternoons at Grandpa Jim’s, when he would pour me hot chocolate, read to me and make me feel safe. Mum told me recently that my dad was jealous of how close I grew to Grandpa Jim, but that isn’t enough to make me forgive him.
My old room is exactly as I left it. I breathe in the smell of home, falling into the worn cotton sheets.
I must have gone to sleep like that, because I’m still fully dressed when a scratching at the door wakes me. Blearily, I check my watch. Two a.m. Wilf stands outside, tail wagging furtively. He isn’t supposed to come upstairs, but we turn a blind eye. Thirsty, I plod down to the kitchen for a glass of water. Wilf follows and settles into his bed. I kneel on the floor for a while, smoothing his ears and the white hairs on his muzzle until he’s too sleepy to follow me.
Passing the dining room I catch sight of the papers and creep in to investigate. Hall has been arranging them into a ring binder: that act alone is enough to make me angry all over again. I peer down in the darkness. The folder lies open where he left it. The spine has been marked Paris . Inside, there are plastic wallets filled with loose sheets, what look like letters written in faded blue and black ink.
I scan through the top pages. Strangely, they are all in my grandpa’s own handwriting. They repeat the same sentences again and again, but in different orders, topped with different dates. I flick past. A few sheets later I find another letter, in writing I don’t recognize, elegant and heavy. Halfway down the page, a word that could be ‘Clermont’ leaps out at me.
I try to decipher the old-fashioned script, but my eyes are itching with tiredness. Carefully, I remove the letter and slide it into my own notebook for safekeeping.
Upstairs, the duvet is warm. By the time my head touches the pillow, I am ten years old again, and roll untroubled into sleep.
Chapter Ten
December 1909
Dear Maman, I cannot speak too much of it now, but I have found extra employment outside of the railway which I think may be of great benefit. I am sorry that I cannot return home for Christmas …
Gui paused, the pencil hovering. He missed his mother, but in truth, he would
‘Just a place I saw in a photograph once.’ I take a sip of my drink.
Hall is on his feet. ‘A photograph? Where? I haven’t seen one.’
I shrug, relishing his confusion.
‘Can’t remember.’
It is Hall’s turn to be angry. He knows that I’m lying, and leans across the table towards me, features twisting. My mother appears in the doorway with a bowl of crackers and he pulls back sharply. Fuming, he shrugs himself into a blazer and collects his notebooks.
‘Thank you so much, Mrs Stevenson,’ he gushes to my mother. ‘I must get out of your hair now. Petra, I’m sure we’ll speak again.’
Then he is gone, and all that is left is the buzzing of nerves in my head. I desperately want to look through the papers on the table, but my mum is steering me into the kitchen. I realize that I am ravenous, and soon, a plate of sausages and buttery mashed potato eclipses all other worries. My mum has opened a bottle of red wine and the kitchen is warm and cosy.
I almost forget about Hall and the photograph and my grandfather as I sit, sleepy and full in front of the television. The phone rings before midnight; it is my dad. My mum tries to hand me the phone, but I just shake my head, escape upstairs. I hear her sigh as I walk away. I know she thinks I’m being stubborn, but I still can’t bring myself to speak to him.
We were never friendly after the divorce, and weren’t even that close before. He’s a journalist, and was always away from home, but it all got worse when he started working for the tabloids. I didn’t really understand at the time. I only knew that Grandpa disapproved, that my mum was unhappy and that my dad was around less and less.
Then came the fights, the divorce proceedings and the long afternoons at Grandpa Jim’s, when he would pour me hot chocolate, read to me and make me feel safe. Mum told me recently that my dad was jealous of how close I grew to Grandpa Jim, but that isn’t enough to make me forgive him.
My old room is exactly as I left it. I breathe in the smell of home, falling into the worn cotton sheets.
I must have gone to sleep like that, because I’m still fully dressed when a scratching at the door wakes me. Blearily, I check my watch. Two a.m. Wilf stands outside, tail wagging furtively. He isn’t supposed to come upstairs, but we turn a blind eye. Thirsty, I plod down to the kitchen for a glass of water. Wilf follows and settles into his bed. I kneel on the floor for a while, smoothing his ears and the white hairs on his muzzle until he’s too sleepy to follow me.
Passing the dining room I catch sight of the papers and creep in to investigate. Hall has been arranging them into a ring binder: that act alone is enough to make me angry all over again. I peer down in the darkness. The folder lies open where he left it. The spine has been marked Paris . Inside, there are plastic wallets filled with loose sheets, what look like letters written in faded blue and black ink.
I scan through the top pages. Strangely, they are all in my grandpa’s own handwriting. They repeat the same sentences again and again, but in different orders, topped with different dates. I flick past. A few sheets later I find another letter, in writing I don’t recognize, elegant and heavy. Halfway down the page, a word that could be ‘Clermont’ leaps out at me.
I try to decipher the old-fashioned script, but my eyes are itching with tiredness. Carefully, I remove the letter and slide it into my own notebook for safekeeping.
Upstairs, the duvet is warm. By the time my head touches the pillow, I am ten years old again, and roll untroubled into sleep.
Chapter Ten
December 1909
Dear Maman, I cannot speak too much of it now, but I have found extra employment outside of the railway which I think may be of great benefit. I am sorry that I cannot return home for Christmas …
Gui paused, the pencil hovering. He missed his mother, but in truth, he would
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