Clementine Rose and the Paris Puzzle Page 2

  Clementine caught sight of a sign that looked a lot like the one for Pierre’s shop back home. Except this patisserie’s name started with an ‘E’. Clementine sounded it out. ‘E-t-i-e-n-n-e-s. Etienne’s Patisserie.’

  ‘Well done, darling,’ Clarissa said. ‘That’s the name of Sophie’s grandfather.’

  The butterflies in Clementine’s stomach were doing backflips and somersaults and leapfrogs and pirouettes all at the same time. She quickly passed Lavender’s lead to Uncle Digby and began to run.

  ‘Slow down, Clementine,’ Aunt Violet warned.

  Just as the child reached the door, it swung open and a woman barrelled outside, balancing a tower of cake boxes in her arms.

  ‘Look out!’ Clarissa called, but it was too late.

  The tower teetered back and forth before toppling to the ground in an avalanche. The topmost box burst open, splattering a large creamy cake all over the footpath.

  ‘Oh no!’ Clementine cried, cradling her face in her hands.

  ‘Zut alors!’ the woman bellowed. Her face was the colour of overripe tomatoes and her jet-black hair seemed charged with static electricity.

  Clementine stared at the mess in front of her and began to feel very hot despite the cold weather. ‘I’m s-s-sorry,’ she stammered, as Lady Clarissa and Uncle Digby raced over to help.

  Clementine felt terrible. She had been so excited to see Sophie and now she’d ruined everything. Tears spilled onto her cheeks.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Drew said, giving her a reassuring squeeze. ‘It was an accident.’

  The woman marched towards Clementine, jabbing her finger at her. ‘What were you thinking, you silly little girl? Children like you should be locked up!’

  ‘Don’t you speak to my great-niece like that,’ Aunt Violet barked. ‘It was hardly intentional, and children should most certainly not be locked up for bumping into old women who carry more than they are capable of managing.’

  The angry woman’s eyes narrowed. ‘If I am old, then you are positively one foot in Père Lachaise!’

  Aunt Violet’s mouth fell open. Clementine had no idea what that place was but she guessed it wasn’t anywhere good.

  ‘What did that lady say?’ Will whispered to his father.

  ‘She said Aunt Violet has one foot in the grave,’ Drew whispered back.

  Digby Pertwhistle scooped up Lavender and cradled the pig inside his coat. He didn’t want the woman to have another thing to complain about and, given half a chance, Lavender would have happily hoovered the remains of the cake from the ground.

  Clarissa began to pick up the boxes. The first cake was well and truly mangled but the other three looked as if they could be saved.

  ‘That was the last caramel sponge,’ the woman sniffed loudly. ‘And caramel sponge is my favourite.’

  Clementine wiped the tears from her eyes and took in the cranky woman’s fur coat and the slash of bright red lipstick across her pouty lips. There was something about her that seemed oddly familiar. It suddenly dawned on Clementine that she looked a lot like the lady in the picture Madame Crabbe had shown them yesterday.

  ‘Please, madame,’ Clarissa said, ‘come inside and I will arrange another cake for you.’

  ‘I do not have time. You have made me very late,’ the woman snapped. She grabbed the boxes from Clarissa’s hands and was about to storm off when Clementine found her voice.

  ‘Are you the lady with the puppets?’ she asked.

  The woman turned and stared at her. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Madame Crabbe showed us a photograph of a lady who looked a lot like you. She had a pig called Capucine,’ Clementine explained. She was pleased with herself for remembering the name of the puppet.

  The woman raised her nose in the air. ‘Do you mean Camille Crabbe, the ditsy woman who chased me all over St Germain with her camera?’

  Clementine shrugged. ‘I guess so. Madame Crabbe said that you’re the most famous puppeteer in all of Paris.’

  ‘What rot!’ the woman scoffed. ‘I am the most famous puppeteer in all of France.’

  Clementine shrank into Aunt Violet’s side. ‘That’s what I meant to say.’

  Drew seized the opportunity to introduce himself and the others. ‘We were hoping to take the children to see your show,’ he said warmly. ‘Monsieur Crabbe recommended it. He says you are magnificent.’

  ‘Did he now?’ The woman batted her false eyelashes. ‘It seems Monsieur Crabbe has impeccable taste. I am Paulette Delacroix.’ Just as she spoke, Lavender poked her head out of Uncle Digby’s coat. Madame Delacroix’s brow wrinkled, resembling three rows of purl stitching. ‘You have a porcelet?’ she gasped.

  Clementine wondered what that was. She knew that the French word for pig was cochon.

  ‘No, she’s a mini cochon,’ Aunt Violet said curtly. She still hadn’t forgiven the woman for the remark about being one foot in the grave, nor her appalling behaviour towards Clementine.

  Paulette Delacroix shook her head in disbelief. ‘I have never heard of such a thing.’

  ‘Madame Delacroix, is that Capucine?’ a man called out from a cafe across the road.

  Everyone turned to find a small crowd of onlookers had begun to gather there.

  ‘Isn’t she adorable?’ Madame Delacroix called back. She dropped her cake boxes and snatched Lavender from Digby’s arms.

  Several people approached and asked if they could have their photographs taken with the famous puppeteer and her star.

  ‘Please, one at a time,’ she said, and smiled as Lavender squirmed to get away.

  ‘Madame Delacroix, allow me to get you another cake,’ Clarissa insisted.

  The woman waved a hand at her. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. It was just a silly accident. I must be more careful in future. I was, after all, carrying far too much,’ she said, shooting Aunt Violet a smug look. ‘You can repay me by bringing your lovely little piggy to the show on Friday.’

  ‘Just Lavender?’ Uncle Digby asked.

  ‘Oh, of course not. You must all come, especially the dear children,’ Madame Delacroix gushed.

  She passed Lavender to Clementine and picked up her parcels, ignoring the pleas of several more passers-by who were keen to have their photographs taken with her.

  ‘I have to go but you must all come to my show.’ She blew kisses to her adoring audience and disappeared down the cobblestoned lane beside the patisserie, leaving Clementine and her family wondering what on earth had just happened.

  Drew held open the door as everyone filed inside. The bell tinkled just the way it did at Pierre’s shop in Highton Mill and the familiar smell of freshly baked bread and cinnamon filled the air. Clementine closed her eyes and breathed it in, the corners of her mouth lifting into a smile.

  A slim woman with short blonde curls greeted the group. Clementine looked around, her stomach sinking when she realised that Pierre wasn’t there and neither was Sophie. Just as she feared the worst, a cheerful figure wearing a white apron and a baker’s hat appeared from the back of the shop. Clementine ran towards him and leapt into his outstretched arms.

  ‘Bonjour, ma chérie! Now, that is the best cuddle I ’ave ’ad all day,’ the man said as Clementine kissed his left cheek and then his right. ‘You ’ave turned into a little French girl, Clementine.’

  She smiled as Pierre returned her to the floor and greeted the rest of the group. Last of all, he knelt down and gave Lavender a scratch under the chin.

  ‘’Ow is my favourite piggy?’ he asked, and Lavender grunted in reply.

  Clementine eyed the doorway to the back of the shop. ‘Where’s Sophie?’

  ‘She is at ’ome with Odette and Jules,’ Pierre replied. Spotting her disappointment, he quickly added, ‘I did not want to spoil your big surprise. We will be there in mere minutes, I promise.’

  Clementine smiled, relieved to hear it.

  Pierre introduced them all to his helper, Emmanuelle, then hung up his hat and apron and ushered the group
out onto the street.

  ‘Enjoy your reunion,’ Emmanuelle called, farewelling them with a wave.

  The others waved back, promising to return another time for treats.

  They walked to the end of the row of shops, then turned into a narrow cobblestoned lane. A pretty iron gate covered in ivy blocked their path. Pierre pushed it open into a courtyard lined with hanging baskets and pots of neatly trimmed box hedges. A three-storey townhouse with tall French doors on the ground floor and Juliet balconies above filled the space.

  Will and Clementine raced ahead to the front door. Clementine could feel the excitement rising in her whole body. She looked at Pierre expectantly as he stepped onto the porch beside her. He gave her a wink and buzzed the front doorbell.

  There was the sound of rushing feet, thudding louder and louder until coming to an abrupt stop at the door.

  ‘Who is it?’ a girl asked from the other side.

  ‘Just open it,’ a boy could be heard whining.

  Pierre nodded at Clementine, who looked fit to burst. ‘It’s me!’ she called.

  The lock clicked and the door swung open to reveal Jules and Sophie Rousseau. Jules’ jaw dropped in disbelief while the two girls squealed and rushed into each other’s arms.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Sophie demanded.

  Odette appeared with a sly grin on her face. ‘It is so good to see you all,’ she said, wiping a tear from her eye.

  ‘I’ve missed you so much,’ Clementine said to her best friend.

  ‘Me too,’ Sophie replied, with an extra-big squeeze. ‘Sorry, I just had to check that you were real.’

  While the adults greeted one another and spoke of adult things, the girls shot off inside with Lavender, Jules and Will hot on their heels.

  Clementine left Lavender in the Rousseaus’ large eat-in kitchen, where she quickly made herself known to Pierre’s father’s cat, a grumpy calico creature named Hortense. The puss didn’t seem the least bit pleased with the visitors and she certainly wasn’t interested in Lavender’s attempts to play.

  Sophie and Jules showed off their rooms upstairs and the group was about to head back to the kitchen when a creak sounded overhead, followed by a dull thud.

  Will looked at Jules. ‘What was that?’

  ‘Do you have a ghost?’ Clementine asked. Unlike most children her age, she didn’t mind the idea of ghosts at all, especially as she liked to imagine her own grandparents floating around Penberthy House in the evenings.

  ‘It’s just Grand-père,’ Sophie said, turning her eyes to the ceiling.

  Clementine gasped. ‘Did he die?’

  ‘No, silly, he’s not a ghost,’ Jules said.

  ‘What’s he doing up there?’ Clementine asked. She loved exploring the attic at home and always managed to find some interesting thing she’d never seen before.

  ‘Remembering,’ Sophie said.

  Clementine nodded. ‘Sometimes I forget things too, like where I put my toy snake, but I think it gets worse when people get older. Aunt Violet always says she doesn’t remember how to use the washing machine.’

  ‘Is he feeling better?’ Will asked.

  ‘It’s hard to tell,’ Jules said, toeing a pull in the carpet. ‘He doesn’t have a cough or a runny nose and he hasn’t been in hospital since we got here but –’

  ‘He spends most of his time in the attic,’ Sophie said. ‘When I went to ask if he was coming down for dinner yesterday he was just sitting there, staring at an old book. It was as if he couldn’t hear. I had to say his name three times.’

  ‘Can we meet him?’ Clementine asked. ‘Maybe he could become friends with Uncle Digby and Aunt Violet. They’re old too.’

  Jules looked at his sister. ‘Let’s say hello. But hold your nose – it smells like wet socks up there.’

  The children followed Jules to the end of the hallway, where he opened what looked to be a cupboard door. Inside, there was a winding staircase similar to the one at Penberthy House but much smaller. They thumped their way upstairs into the vast space, which was crisscrossed with dusty oak beams.

  ‘Grand-père,’ Sophie called, but there was no answer.

  They emerged into a huge room filled with all manner of household cast-offs. Clementine spotted suitcases, a hat stand, old cupboards and chests of drawers. Unlike Penberthy House, there were no ancient taxidermied animals like Theodore the warthog, at least upon first inspection.

  A shuffling sound led the children to the far end of the space, where an old man with a thick head of silver hair was hunched over a box, sorting through a pile of something or other.

  ‘What are you doing, Grand-père?’ Sophie asked, touching him gently on the elbow.

  Startled, the man turned around suddenly as if only just registering that the children were there. ‘Oh, nothing important,’ he said, waving a black-and-white photograph in the air. ‘What brings you up here, ma chérie?’

  ‘I thought you’d like to meet our guests,’ Sophie replied. ‘Clemmie is my best friend from home and Will is going to be her brother soon, when their mum and dad get married. They came to visit and it was a big surprise, but maybe you knew that already.’

  ‘Ah, perhaps your mother did mention it the other day. Bonjour,’ the man said, with the slightest hint of a smile.

  ‘Bonjour,’ Clementine and Will echoed shyly.

  ‘Are you feeling better, Monsieur Rousseau?’ Clementine asked. She was hopeful that he was on the mend so that Sophie could return to Highton Mill. She hadn’t had a chance to tell her all about awful Saskia Baker and the trouble she was causing at school. The sooner Sophie could come home, the better as far as Clementine was concerned.

  ‘Comme ci, comme ça. I have good days and bad,’ the old man said. He stared at the picture in his hand and his thick caterpillar eyebrows furrowed.

  Clementine’s face fell.

  ‘Who’s that in the photograph?’ Sophie asked.

  Her grandfather handed it to her. ‘That is me when I was a boy and that was my best friend, Solene. We lived in the same village in Provence.’

  ‘Where is she now?’ Jules asked.

  ‘I do not know. I moved to Paris, and when I returned to visit my family a few months later, I heard that she had eloped,’ the man explained. ‘Her parents did not approve of the marriage and never spoke of her again.’

  ‘That’s so sad,’ Clementine said. She couldn’t imagine never speaking to her mother again.

  ‘She was clever. She made beautiful things,’ the man said, smiling to himself.

  ‘What sort of things?’ Sophie asked.

  Before her grandfather had time to reply, Odette’s voice filtered up from the bottom of the attic stairs. ‘Morning tea is ready. I made ’ot chocolate,’ the woman called.

  ‘Yum!’ Sophie exclaimed.

  ‘Do you want to come and have something to eat, Grand-père?’ Jules asked. ‘There’s caramel eclairs.’

  The old man patted his stomach. ‘I do not think I need any more pastries, Jules. I will stay here a while longer.’

  The children bid farewell and barrelled down the stairs, all the while talking of garden adventures and rescuing Lavender from horrible Hortense.

  Clementine up-ended the bowl and allowed the soggy marshmallow to slide into her mouth. ‘That was the best hot chocolate I’ve ever tasted,’ she declared.

  Odette had made traditional chocolat chaud, which Clementine and Will had first mistaken for soup because of the way it was served in bowls instead of mugs. The children had lapped at the warm milk like kittens while Aunt Violet regaled the Rousseaus with the story of Madame Delacroix.

  Lavender had given up on Hortense and was sitting under Uncle Digby’s chair, enjoying the titbits he was feeding her. The calico cat was lazing by the range, preening herself and shooting the pig dirty looks.

  Odette took the saucepan from the stove and topped up the children’s bowls with the last of the hot chocolate.

  ‘So you ’ave met my most f
amous customer,’ Pierre said to Clementine.

  The child nodded. ‘I don’t think she likes me very much.’

  ‘Oh, ’er bark is worse than ’er bite,’ the man said. ‘We should all go to ’er show. Per’aps I will take ’er some caramel sponge cake.’

  ‘Madame Delacroix ’as been famous since I was a girl,’ Odette said. ‘Or I should say that Capucine ’as been. She used to ’ave ’er own television show.’

  ‘Well, I found the woman appalling,’ Aunt Violet chimed in. ‘I won’t be going. I’d rather wash my smalls.’

  The children snorted into their bowls and Jules almost spat out his drink.

  ‘Do you mean your underwear, Aunt Violet?’ Clementine said with a giggle.

  The old woman nodded. ‘I’ll do yours too if it means I don’t have to go.’

  ‘Oh, wonderful,’ Uncle Digby said, reaching for a cream bun. ‘We won’t have to wash when we get home, then.’

  Aunt Violet shot the man a frosty look. ‘I certainly won’t be touching yours, Pertwhistle.’

  Clarissa ignored the elderly pair and turned to Pierre. ‘Did you grow up here?’ she asked.

  Pierre nodded. ‘We moved to this ’ouse when I was a young boy. It is a beautiful place, although I think it is too big for my father to live in alone.’

  Sophie ate the last bite of her caramel eclair and pushed back her chair. ‘We’re going to play in the garden,’ she announced.

  ‘Put on your coats,’ Odette said.

  Clementine bent down and picked up the little pig. ‘Come on, lazybones.’

  The children scampered out the back door, across the terrace, down a flight of steps and onto the lawn. Compared to Clementine’s house, the garden was compact, but it had beautiful trees and hedges and a neat lawn.

  ‘What about a game of hide and seek?’ Jules asked.

  There was a cloudy chorus of agreement as the children breathed out into the cold air.

  ‘I’ll be in first,’ the boy offered. He stood on the bottom step and began to count aloud.

  Will spotted a large stone pot and crouched behind it while Sophie shielded herself with a trellis covered in a leafy vine. Clementine scanned the yard for the perfect hiding place. As Jules reached five, she and Lavender ran to a thick bush at the bottom of the garden and squeezed in behind it. Lavender loved playing hide and seek at home and was very good at staying still until they were found.