Page 5 of The Strawberry Thief
I think ghosts are just people with unfinished stories to tell the world. Perhaps that’s why they try to come back. And perhaps I can tell Narcisse it’s okay, that I’m looking after the strawberry wood, that I can finish his story. That’s what I was thinking today, as I played in the strawberry wood, as I walked by the bank of the Tannes, as I looked into the wishing well, and dropped a coin there in his name—
But there was no sign of him anywhere. He must be trapped behind the glass. And so, as Maman was closing up, I went across the square to see. I stood very close to the window and looked through the gaps in the paper. The shop is empty now. It was mostly dark in there, because of the papered windows. The rows of benches that used to be there to display the buckets of flowers are gone. The floor is bare boards, and nothing else. Just some flower-heads, and dust. Even the old seed calendar on the wall is gone, leaving its ghost against the faded plaster.
I pulled away from the window then, to try and see the reflections. There wasn’t much more than a ribbon of glass between the sheets of newspaper. I wondered if I’d see his eyes, looking out from the shadows. But all I could see was my own face – the ghost of myself, looking back at me.
I said: ‘Narcisse?’
In the window, I saw Bam, pulling naughty faces.
I didn’t stop him. I needed to know. I said, a little louder: ‘Narcisse?’
A tiny wind began to blow. A nothing wind, a playful wind. It smelt of spring, and thawing snow, and primroses, and promises. It blew in my ear like a playful child, it whispered like a wishing well.
I said: ‘Narcisse?’
It tugged my hair. It felt like teasing fingers. Reflected in the glass I could see Bam, still pulling faces and laughing. I knew I ought to stop him before he did something bad, but now the wind was in my head, making me dizzy, making me dance—
And then, something moved. I saw someone.NotNarcisse, but someone else – a woman with her back to me, reflected in the window glass. A woman, or a bird, I thought – or maybe she was something of both. A lady all in black-and-white, like maybe a magpie—
I only saw her for the time it took for me to pull away, but what I saw made me think that perhaps I had seen her somewhere before—
I stepped away from the window. ‘BAM!’
I looked again. The woman was gone. Maybe she was a ghost, I thought. A ghost with an unfinished story. But now I could see somethingthroughthe glass, something I’m sure hadn’t been there before. A single, black feather, on the boards among the flower-heads and dust.
5
Thursday, March 16
This morning it was sunny and bright, and Maman was making Easter things. There were eggs, and hens, and rabbits, and ducks, all in different sizes and varieties of chocolate, and Maman was decorating them with gold leaf, and hundreds and thousands, and sugar roses and candied fruit. Later she’ll wrap them in cellophane, like fabulous bunches of flowers, each tied with a long curly ribbon of a different colour, and put them all on shelves at the back, as part of her annual Easter display.
This morning, Maman is happy. She got a message from Anouk today. She’s coming home for Easter, instead of staying in Paris with Jean-Loup. I didn’t tell her I’ve been dropping coins in the wishing well every day. I didn’t want to spoil the surprise, or make her worry that I might fall in. And having Anouk back will be fun. We’ll make all her favourite dishes. I’ll show her my wood, and my wishing well. And maybe she’ll like it so much that she’ll stay, and we can all be together again.
But I’m still no closer to knowing the story of Narcisse and the strawberry wood. Everyone’s talking about it today, asking why he left it to me. They come in to buy chocolates, but really they want to ask questions.Why did Narcisse leave his land to Rosette? What is she going to do with it? How much do you think it’s worth?No-one seems to understand that it was a special place to him.
I helped Maman in the shop all day. Mostly because I wanted to hear what people had to say about my wood, but also to see if anyone came in or out of the flower shop. We had lots of customers. First there was Guillaume, who comes every day for hot chocolate. Then there was Madame Clairmont, and Monsieur Poitou the baker, and Madame Mahjoubi from down Les Marauds, and Madame Montour, and Madame Drou.
Madame Montour didn’t say much. She didn’t ask about the wood. But she watched me from her place at the table by the door, and smiled with her mouth, but not with her eyes, and talked to Maman about the snow, and didn’t finish her chocolate. Madame Montour has been here before. She sometimes comes at the weekend, with Madame Clairmont, after church. But this is the first time she’s called midweek. And this is the first time she’slookedat me. I think I make her uncomfortable.
And then I forgot about Madame Montour, because Pilou was at the door. That was a surprise, because Pilou hasn’t been to the shop in a while.
‘Pilou!’ I said in my shadow-voice, and Bam turned a crazy somersault. Pilou doesn’t see Bam any more, and Maman gave me a warning look, and the bells on the kitchen curtain shivered and rang like icicles.
Pilou gave me a nod. He was wearing a red jumper and jeans, and carrying his satchel. He comes home from school early on Thursdays. I know. I sometimes watch him get off the bus. Sometimes he has time to play, but recently he’s had too much work. His mother was with him – Joséphine, who runs the Café des Marauds – and now I could see that his face was as red as the silk sachets hanging in the doorway.
Joséphine puffed out her cheeks. ‘God, what a day!’ she said, sitting down on one of the chairs by the counter. ‘You can’t imagine how busy I’ve been.’ She pointed at the pot of hot chocolate standing on the counter-top, and said: ‘Is there any left?’
Maman smiled. ‘Of course there is. And you can try my freshchurros– with blackcurrantcoulisor chocolate – and tell me all the gossip.’
‘You’rethe one with the gossip,’ said Joséphine, taking her chocolate cup and adding whipped cream and marshmallows. ‘I heard Narcisse left his farm to Rosette.’
‘Not all of it,’ said Maman, shaking cinnamon sugar over the freshly madechurros. ‘Just the little oak wood that runs alongside the property.’
Joséphine opened her eyes wide. ‘That’s incredible. Did you know? And why would he leave it to Rosette?’
Maman shrugged. ‘He liked Rosette.’
‘What are you going to do with it? Sell it?’
