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PROVENCE, 1926
Marguerite wasn’t like the neighbour who had taken her to live with her after her mother died. Madame Gour had poked and prodded and tried to get her to talk – even once coming up behind her to scare her into it.
Her grandmother just let her be sad. Perhaps because she was sad too. But it was a different kind of sad.
Years later, Elodie would realise that it was because for Marguerite the loss of her daughter had occurred many years before – when Brigitte had run away from home, with a man Marguerite knew was never going to marry her. He’d set her up in a house in Paris after Elodie was born. It gave Marguerite no satisfaction to know she’d been right.
That first night, she steered Elodie into the kitchen. A large room with shiny copper pots hanging from hooks, a massive blue range in the corner, and a large wooden table, covered in plenty of scratches from years of use. Herbs on the windowsills and sweeping views out across the vineyards. It was a cheerful, welcoming place.
She put Elodie’s suitcase by the door. ‘We’ll deal with that later,’ she said with a wink, and then invited her to come wash her hands, so that together they could finish making the cake.
After Elodie had washed her hands, Marguerite measured out the ingredients, and then passed them to Elodie to add to a mixing bowl, showing her how to crack an egg on the side and distribute its contents without getting any shell inside. When Elodie tried, though, it slipped out of her fingers and fell onto the floor.
Marguerite laughed when she saw Elodie’s wide, shocked eyes. She said, ‘Don’t you worry, ma petite. It’s all part of being a cook – it’s not a job for someone who doesn’t like mess,’ and she quickly scooped it up and away. ‘Now the magic starts,’ she said. ‘While we wait for the cake to rise.’
Elodie found herself starting to smile, only to quickly frown. She shook her head violently, and went to sit at the long wooden table, her head in her hands.
‘What’s wrong – are you not feeling well?’ Marguerite asked.
Elodie, of course, said nothing. It felt wrong for her to feel like this, she thought. Like she was betraying Maman. How could she feel, even for a moment, that everything was going to be all right when Maman was dead? She wiped her eyes.
Marguerite put a hand on her shoulder and then guessed what might be the problem, cursing herself. She had wanted to make her first night here special, she was clearly trying too hard. ‘You miss your maman?’
Elodie nodded.
‘You think maybe it’s wrong to have fun when she’s not here?’
Elodie bit her lip, then closed her eyes and nodded.
‘Did she like it when you had fun?’
Elodie looked up with a frown, but didn’t answer.
‘I think she liked it, no?’
Elodie nodded, slightly.
‘I think she’d want that for you, ma petite. You know, my daughter and I didn’t have the easiest relationship, but there was one thing I could never say about her.’
Elodie looked at her in anticipation.
Marguerite pulled a chair out and came to sit next to Elodie. ‘Brigitte would never want anyone to feel bad. If you’re sad, you’re sad, that’s OK. But it’s OK if sometimes you feel a little better – it’s like…’ She paused for thought, then pointed outside. ‘See that cloud there?’
Elodie looked, her brows knitted.
‘Well, today it was a beautiful sunny day, right? But when that passes over the house it’ll be a bit shady for a while. It will move on and the rest of the evening will still be sunny until nightfall. It’s the same with your feelings. You feel sad she’s gone, right? But you don’t have to be sad all the day – for you, it will be the opposite maybe, a bit of sun coming to take the place of those clouds. That’s why I thought we could do some baking. So you can feel a bit of sunshine while you remember her at the same time.’
Elodie nodded. She hadn’t thought of it like that. To be honest, her life lately had been nothing but cloud. But she understood what Marguerite meant. Maman wouldn’t want her to fight being happy, she’d always tried to kiss her tears away.
‘Did you know that she used to love baking when she was a child?’
Elodie looked up at her in surprise. Then shook her head.
‘Oh yes. Loved it. I think it would make her very happy that you’re learning to bake.’
Elodie hadn’t considered that. It made her feel a bit better, to think that.
The honey cake was light and airy, and Marguerite cut her a thick slice. Elodie managed a few bites. She listened as her grandmother told her what they’d be doing over the next few months, and how it wasn’t quite decided what was happening with her father – if he was going to come collect her or not this year. The thought that she might still move on, yet again, and have her future unsettled, caused the anxiety to rush up and choke her, and she thought she might be sick. She put her piece of cake down, swallowing heavily. Everything was so uncertain. It was all too much. Her head started to swarm.
