Read Online The Death-Defying Pepper Roux by Geraldine McCaughrean - Free Book Online
Authors: Geraldine McCaughrean
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cuffs—left, too, with the memory of the purple tongue poking through a little crossed beak, the warning in those pheasant eyes: Run! Get away! You’ll end up like us! You think you’re all the colors of happiness—doing no harm to anyone—then suddenly one day…
Bang! Something struck Pepper on the back. Pellets of fear and guilt lodged throughout his body.
“You took my girl’s job,” snarled Bertrand from Leather Goods, thumping Pepper again with his black leather cap. “Suzie says you took her job while she was at the hospital. That right?”
“I suppose….”
“So now you’re going to give it up, ain’t you!”
Suzanne loitered in the background, holding a nose-gay of violets, biting her lip but smiling despite herself. She had not asked Bertrand to take up her cause—had only mentioned it in passing. But she could not help delighting in Bertrand—so manly, so fierce!—ousting her usurper like some knight-errant in patent leather shoes.
Henri from Shoes & Boots sped by, protesting his innocence, pursued by Christophe and his meat saw.
“You going or what?” asked Bertrand, and slapped Pepper with his cap again.
“Yes, but first I have to explain to Christophe!”
“I’ll do that!” cheeped Suzanne, feet still dancing to the music inside her head. She ran and fetched Pepper’s jacket from the apron hook. It seemed the best way to save his life, and she had nothing personal against Pepper himself. “Explain what?”
“About his wife and Henri. It isn’t true! It was me! I didn’t know she was married!”
The butcher, just then doubling back to cut Henri off at Confectionery, heard Pepper and blundered to a halt, misunderstanding—“You wrote love letters to my wife?”—then simply hurled the saw at Pepper where he stood mired in a swamp of dead pheasants.
Feathers, tendons, and claws; feathers, beaks, and eyes: They filled Pepper’s vision as he dived out of the path of the saw, sliding on his face across the checkered floor. Christophe picked him up by the shoulders of his jacket, dragged him to the great silver meat slicer—“You been cozying up to my Fleur?”—and setits circular guillotine blade spinning. Pepper’s flailing hands groped for the carving knife but found only the bowl of olive stones he had gouged out of the olives that morning, tipping them over, scattering the floor of the delicatessen with pits and broken china. Christophe lost his footing.
“Excuse me!” called Madame Froissart’s frail, piping voice from beyond the counter. “I say, excuse me! I’ve come for my nuts.”
And Pepper fled, scrabbling for purchase with the toes of his boots, skidding on the fruits of his own kindness, fleeing through the revolving doors, out onto the sunny street. A tram was passing, and he pitched himself at it and clung to its coachwork, face pressed to the painted metal as to the scalding funnel of L’Ombrage .
The tram carried him past a war memorial to the Crimean dead, topped by a bronze angel, wings outspread. Pepper looked up at the angel now with rage and resentment. Every day for a month, he had worked with sharp blades, wires, and guillotines—expressly allowing the saints a fair chance to spill his blood. Was it quite necessary, then, for the angels to employ Bertrand from Leather Goods and a jealous butcheras assassins? Christophe, perhaps—but Bertrand ? In his stupid leather cap? If the saints wanted to humiliate Pepper as well as assassinate him, they would have to try harder and run faster next time.
Outside the town hall, the tram turned left, and Pepper was jolted free of his handholds, tumbling into the street. He half expected the fire brigade to be there to hose him down. But there was no demonstration today, no sign of civil discontent—only a single rain-smeared placard propped up against a horse trough. It said:
D OWN WITH THE H ONGRIOT -P LEUVIEZ A MENDMENT (C LAUSE 5)!
Pepper caught the coastal train to Abaron. Its
Bang! Something struck Pepper on the back. Pellets of fear and guilt lodged throughout his body.
“You took my girl’s job,” snarled Bertrand from Leather Goods, thumping Pepper again with his black leather cap. “Suzie says you took her job while she was at the hospital. That right?”
“I suppose….”
“So now you’re going to give it up, ain’t you!”
Suzanne loitered in the background, holding a nose-gay of violets, biting her lip but smiling despite herself. She had not asked Bertrand to take up her cause—had only mentioned it in passing. But she could not help delighting in Bertrand—so manly, so fierce!—ousting her usurper like some knight-errant in patent leather shoes.
Henri from Shoes & Boots sped by, protesting his innocence, pursued by Christophe and his meat saw.
“You going or what?” asked Bertrand, and slapped Pepper with his cap again.
“Yes, but first I have to explain to Christophe!”
“I’ll do that!” cheeped Suzanne, feet still dancing to the music inside her head. She ran and fetched Pepper’s jacket from the apron hook. It seemed the best way to save his life, and she had nothing personal against Pepper himself. “Explain what?”
“About his wife and Henri. It isn’t true! It was me! I didn’t know she was married!”
The butcher, just then doubling back to cut Henri off at Confectionery, heard Pepper and blundered to a halt, misunderstanding—“You wrote love letters to my wife?”—then simply hurled the saw at Pepper where he stood mired in a swamp of dead pheasants.
Feathers, tendons, and claws; feathers, beaks, and eyes: They filled Pepper’s vision as he dived out of the path of the saw, sliding on his face across the checkered floor. Christophe picked him up by the shoulders of his jacket, dragged him to the great silver meat slicer—“You been cozying up to my Fleur?”—and setits circular guillotine blade spinning. Pepper’s flailing hands groped for the carving knife but found only the bowl of olive stones he had gouged out of the olives that morning, tipping them over, scattering the floor of the delicatessen with pits and broken china. Christophe lost his footing.
“Excuse me!” called Madame Froissart’s frail, piping voice from beyond the counter. “I say, excuse me! I’ve come for my nuts.”
And Pepper fled, scrabbling for purchase with the toes of his boots, skidding on the fruits of his own kindness, fleeing through the revolving doors, out onto the sunny street. A tram was passing, and he pitched himself at it and clung to its coachwork, face pressed to the painted metal as to the scalding funnel of L’Ombrage .
The tram carried him past a war memorial to the Crimean dead, topped by a bronze angel, wings outspread. Pepper looked up at the angel now with rage and resentment. Every day for a month, he had worked with sharp blades, wires, and guillotines—expressly allowing the saints a fair chance to spill his blood. Was it quite necessary, then, for the angels to employ Bertrand from Leather Goods and a jealous butcheras assassins? Christophe, perhaps—but Bertrand ? In his stupid leather cap? If the saints wanted to humiliate Pepper as well as assassinate him, they would have to try harder and run faster next time.
Outside the town hall, the tram turned left, and Pepper was jolted free of his handholds, tumbling into the street. He half expected the fire brigade to be there to hose him down. But there was no demonstration today, no sign of civil discontent—only a single rain-smeared placard propped up against a horse trough. It said:
D OWN WITH THE H ONGRIOT -P LEUVIEZ A MENDMENT (C LAUSE 5)!
Pepper caught the coastal train to Abaron. Its
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