Freja flitted along behind, skipping from one side of the street to the other, marvelling at the exquisite, old-fashioned paintings that adorned so many of the houses. There were giant puppets dangling from fourth-storey windows, trees that grew across entire façades, royal trumpeters standing either side of a door to herald a visitor’s arrival, horses and knights, goblins and archers, and fair maidens leaning out over painted balconies as though waiting for the return of a beloved. Walking along the street was like flicking through the coloured pages of a fairy-tale book.
They turned along a narrow alleyway lined with shops, where Vivi brought them to a halt before a wide window painted in gold letters: ‘Berna Schokolade’.
‘Another chocolate shop!’ cried Freja ‘Why are we here? Leckerbissen has everything chocolate you could possibly want. They even have chocolates in the shape of books. François-Louis showed them to me just now in the kitchen. Tiny, delicate books with gold writing on the spines.’
Vivi smiled. ‘So very clever.’
‘And delicious,’ added Tobias.
‘So why are we going to another chocolate shop?’ repeated Freja.
‘Not a chocolate shop,’ said Vivi. ‘A chocolate factory. Frau Niederhauser says it’s important for me to see the source of our chocolate before I start work tomorrow.’
Vivi pushed open the door and, together, the girl, the writer and the pretty chef walked into the small office at the front of the factory. The dog lay down by the doorstep and whimpered, tired of being left alone. He gnawed on his stick.
‘Willkommen! Willkommen!’ A large man barrelled towards them. He was dressed in white overalls, white gumboots and a white shower cap. The overalls stretched tightly around his belly. ‘I am Herr Berna of Berna Schokolade. You are Vivi, ja, here for the factory tour?’
Vivi nodded and, before she could utter another word, Herr Berna had hustled all three of them through the back door, into the factory, where they were met with a wave of warm, thick, sweet air. Freja stopped and gasped.
‘Sugar! Milk! Cocoa!’ Herr Berna chuckled. ‘It is bracing, ja?’
Freja smiled up at him. ‘Ja!’
‘Come! Come!’ he shouted above the hum of machinery and led them to a row of hessian sacks. Taking a Swiss Army knife from his pocket, he slit open the top of one of the sacks, scooped out a handful of dark brown beans and poured them into Vivi’s hands.
‘Cocoa beans!’ he cried. ‘All the way from Brazil. Smell them, bite them, squeeze them, let them spill between your fingers and scatter across the floor.’
Vivi sniffed and nibbled and stared as the beans fell to the floor.
‘See how they bounce and roll and skitter-scatter!’ cried Herr Berna. ‘They are the perfect bean. Round, fat and dried to precisely the right degree!’
Herr Berna danced around the factory in his white gumboots, smiling, shouting, showing them roasting ovens, rollers, fans, grinding mills and the enormous copper vats where the melted chocolate was swooshed back and forth by wide, flat paddles.
Tobias lagged behind, muttering to himself at each and every piece of equipment. ‘Marvellous places, factories. A world of dangers in a single space! One could lose a finger in that fan . . . by accident or . . .’ He rubbed his chin. ‘And that grinder looks rather nasty . . . squishy . . . crushy . . . mangly . . .’ He tugged his ear and chuckled at the possibilities. ‘And those vats! Why, there’s enough melted chocolate in there to drown a grown man!’
Freja cast a nervous glance at Herr Berna, afraid that he might be offended. But the chocolate maker was nodding and smiling. ‘Ja! Ja! Drowning is quite a possibility here in my factory full of liquid Schokolade!’ he sang with his jolly German accent. ‘But what a wonderful way to go, ja? To drown in a vat of Schokolade would not be so very bad, I think. Sometimes, I dream that I am overcome by an avalanche of cocoa beans and Schokolade buttons. It is both terrifying and beautiful at the same time!’ His eyes twinkled. ‘Last night, I dreamt that I was coated in milk Schokolade and placed in the Weinmarkt like a statue. The pigeons sat on my head and the Kinder nibbled at my fingertips!’ He clutched his belly and laughed until tears streamed from his eyes.
Freja and Vivi giggled. But Tobias stared, mouth open. He pulled his notebook from his pocket, his pencil from behind his ear, and began to write. ‘What a marvellous crime! My word! If my villain, Count Ferdinand III, gets to chocolate-coat someone by the end of my novel, I’ll be a very happy man! Of course, the castle chef will have to be in on it, but it’s quite achievable . . .’
Herr Berna boomed, ‘I would love to read such a crime story!’
Freja leaned over a vat of chocolate so dark it was almost black. She wrinkled her nose, turned away and sneezed. Three times.
Herr Berna laughed. ‘It is bitter, ja? That is our darkest, richest Schokolade of all — we call it the Matterhorn Monster. It is not for the faint-hearted!’
Herr Berna led them past six more vats of melted chocolate, each paler than the one before. Stopping at the final vat, he puffed out his chest and announced, ‘And here is the jewel in the crown of Berna Schokolade! Our finest milk Schokolade — Margrit Milk.’
‘Margrit Milk,’ whispered Freja. Leaning over the vat, she breathed in the sweet, creamy aroma and watched the liquid chocolate ooze and swirl around the paddles. She stood back and smiled at Herr Berna. ‘Who is Margrit?’
‘Margrit is a cow,’ explained Herr Berna. ‘She is Switzerland’s most famous dairy cow. She has won more prizes for her creamy rich milk than any other cow in the country. And, luckily for us, she lives in the hills just outside Lucerne. We buy her milk and, from it, we make our delicious Margrit Milk Schokolade.’
‘I’ll take the lot!’ declared a voice with a strong French accent.
Freja spun around to see a man standing in the middle of the factory, staring and nodding at Herr Berna. He wore a black beret on his head and a large black moustache stretched across his face. The moustache looked rather comical. He was a small man, but his middle was plump. Soft and puffy like a pillow, thought Freja. Probably from too much chocolate.
‘Guten Tag!’ Herr Berna smiled. ‘The factory is closed to the public. Perhaps you could return to the office and speak to my assistant about your Schokolade needs.’
‘Non!’ said the French man. ‘It is not necessary. I know what I want. I will buy all of your Margrit Milk chocolate. Every last square. Make the bill out to Monsieur de la Fontaine and I will pay for it now.’
‘I am sorry, Monsieur,’ said Herr Berna. He pointed at the vat of melted chocolate. ‘Here is the latest batch of our Margrit Milk. It has been started just this morning and will not be ready for purchase for some days.’
The man took a step backward as though he had been slapped in the face. But, just as suddenly, he straightened his body, snapped his braces and forced a smile onto his lips. ‘But what about the chocolate that was in the vat three days ago? I can buy that, can I not? Right now. All of it.’
‘How do you know there was Schokolade in the vat three days ago?’ asked Herr Berna.
Monsieur de la Fontaine clutched at his braces. ‘I . . . I . . . I just presumed. Three days ago. Four days ago. One day ago. You are a famous chocolate factory, so you must be making the chocolate all the time.’
‘Ja! Ja!’ Herr Berna agreed. ‘But the Margrit Milk that was in the vat three days ago is now in slabs and —’
‘I will buy them all!’ cried the man. ‘Every last slab. Right now!’
‘Nein!’ Herr Berna chuckled. ‘But it is not possible. They have been sold already, purchased by the three fine chocolatiers of Lucerne — Schokoladen-Fantasie, Café Schokolade-Schokolade and Leckerbissen.’ He turned and smiled at Vivi. ‘The slabs were all sent out to these chocolatiers this very morning. But you can place an order here at my factory today and you will be given the first slabs that are set from the Margrit Milk that is swirling and sloshing and blooping right here by my side. Or, if you cannot wait, we have three more de
licious varieties of milk chocolate — Edelweiss Bliss, Berna’s Best (which is, in fact, only second best because of the delicious Margrit Milk!) and Milky Yum.’
The man’s eyes darted from the vat of Margrit Milk to Herr Berna and back to the vat. ‘But of course!’ he cried, patting his puffy belly and smiling. ‘I am being ridiculous. I will order some of your other fine chocolate.’ He pressed the ends of his moustache into his cheeks, took one last longing glance at the vat of Margrit Milk, turned on his heels and disappeared into the office.
‘Another happy customer!’ sang Herr Berna. ‘Wunderbar!’
‘Wunderbar!’ agreed Vivi.
‘Wunderbar!’ cried Tobias, flinging his arms wide. His pencil flew from his hand and plopped into the vat of Margrit Milk.
Vivi gasped. Freja giggled.
But Herr Berna seemed not to notice. He nodded at the girl, the pretty chef and the writer, one after the other. ‘Come! Come! Now it is time for the nibbling. A factory tour must end with a taste of every chocolate we make! Perhaps many tastes!’
And with one last glance at the vat of Margrit Milk where the pencil had sunk, Freja shrugged and skipped after Herr Berna to the tasting room where they spent the rest of the morning in a blur of chocolate and chewing and licking and laughter. Or, in Tobias’ case, a blur of chocolate and sighs and Vivi’s ganache eyes.
CHAPTER 9
A nasty shock
‘Clementine!’ Freja froze at the door to her mother’s room. The morning’s chocolate tastings turned into one big lump in her tummy.
Finnegan dropped his stick. His tail and ears drooped.
Freja stared at the figure in the bed. The bandages that, yesterday, had merely covered Clementine’s head and eyes seemed to have grown and spread, consuming her entire face, her arms, her chest and one leg. The other leg was covered in a thick shell of plaster and suspended from an elaborate system of pulleys, chains and cables.
Freja tiptoed towards the bed, tears streaming down her cheeks. Finnegan slunk at her side. ‘Clementine. What have they done to you?’
‘Freja.’
Freja squealed and spun around to see Clementine in the second bed — smiling and mostly bandage-free.
‘Darling girl.’ Clementine stretched out her thin arms.
Freja looked back at the bandaged body, shivered and ran to Clementine. There, both she and the dog leapt onto the bed and smothered Clementine with hugs and kisses and licks and dribbles.
‘Mummy Darling Heart,’ whispered Freja. ‘You’re okay! You’re okay! I thought it was you in the bed over there. I thought something had gone terribly wrong. I thought . . . I thought . . .’ But soon the horrible thoughts were gone, lost in the comfort of her mother’s hug.
And Finnegan, also relieved, lay still and patient at their side, nibbling on a wrinkle in the sheet.
‘Boof!’
Freja sat up.
Finnegan was pacing back and forth at the foot of the bed on the other side of the room. Every now and then he stopped to sniff and whimper.
A moan came from somewhere deep within the bandages.
‘Poor woman,’ whispered Freja. ‘What’s wrong with her?’
‘A fall,’ said Clementine, ‘three days ago. Apparently, she stumbled off the edge of Mount Pilatus. She’s been in the hospital on the other side of town, until this morning when they brought her here to the clinic. She’s been asleep all day.’
‘Mount Pilatus!’ gasped Freja. ‘So high!’
‘Yes,’ said Clementine, ‘but I don’t suppose she fell from the very top right down to the very bottom. She has, however, had a nasty time of it — cuts, bruises, a broken leg and a rather squished nose.’
‘And there is a great deal of nose on my face to be squished,’ said a posh English voice. The bandaged head turned towards them. ‘Yes, indeed! I have a very large honker. In fact, it may have saved my life. I seem to have fallen face first onto a boulder, so it’s quite likely that my nose took the impact. It probably acted as a great fleshy shock absorber, saving my skull and brain from serious damage.’
Freja stared, speechless.
Clementine’s mouth fell open.
‘Boof!’ Finnegan wagged his tail and grinned.
‘Well, hellooo handsome!’ the patient cooed. ‘Come here and let me pat your shaggy grey head.’
Finnegan didn’t need a second invitation. He trotted to the head of the bed and planted his front paws on the edge of the mattress. He seemed to sense the woman’s delicate condition and leaned gently forward to lick the few spots of person he could find between the bandages — elbow, eyes, lips and a tiny bit of skin around the neck.
‘Good boy. Good puppy,’ the woman murmured, smiling and scratching Finnegan behind his ears, just the way he liked it.
When the scratching and licking was done, Finnegan dashed to the door, grabbed his stick and lay it carefully on the bed beside the woman’s hand.
‘A stick!’ she cried. ‘What a marvellous gift. Although I don’t suppose the nurses will let me keep it. Perhaps I can enjoy it until you go, and you can bring it back tomorrow for a little visit.’
Finnegan grinned and dribbled on the woman’s arm as though he could not have been more satisfied with the arrangement.
Freja slipped off Clementine’s bed and crept to the woman’s side. ‘Hello,’ she whispered. ‘I’m Freja Peachtree and this is Finnegan and —’ she pointed at her mother ‘— this is my mother, Clementine Peachtree.’
Clementine waved her thin white hand and smiled.
‘Clementine Peachtree?’ cried the woman. ‘The famous zoologist?’
Freja beamed at the woman. ‘You know my mother?’
‘But of course!’ cried the woman. Turning to face Clementine, she said, ‘I am Lady Margaret Pembleton. My husband, Lord Christopher Pembleton, was a great admirer of yours, Ms Peachtree. He spent many happy hours reading your papers on Arctic animals and I do believe he once supported your journey into Siberia where you immersed yourself in the world of wolves, reindeer and bears. My, how adventurous you’ve been!’
Clementine smiled. She tried to lift her head from the pillow, but didn’t have the strength.
‘Hang on!’ shouted Freja. Dropping to the floor, she unlocked the wheels on Clementine’s bed and pushed it across the room until it was pressed up against Lady Pembleton’s bed.
‘There!’ said Freja. ‘Lady Pembleton is right beside you now, Clementine.’
‘Please,’ said the woman, ‘call me Lady P.’
‘And you should call me Clementine,’ said Clementine.
‘And you can call me Freja,’ said Freja, then blushed because it was such a silly thing to say.
But neither of the women laughed. Clementine smiled proudly, reaching around until she found Freja’s hand. ‘Precious, perfect child,’ she whispered. ‘I wish I could see you.’
‘Oh, she is just splendid!’ cried Lady P. ‘I don’t suppose you’d ever forget those wild golden curls or those bright blue eyes that shine with kindness and love and intelligence.’
‘No, never,’ whispered Clementine.
‘But perhaps,’ continued Lady P, ‘you are not aware of the fresh orchids adorning the hem of her dress, the bright pink hiking boots or the pockets overflowing with enormous blocks of chocolate.’
‘Chocolate!’ cried Freja, suddenly remembering the hefty blocks Herr Berna had insisted she take with her. ‘Would you like some?’
‘Oh yes, please!’ sighed Lady P. ‘I’ve had nothing but chicken broth and lemon water for three days. A piece of chocolate is just what the doctor ordered.’
‘Really?’ asked Freja.
‘No, not really,’ said Lady P. ‘The doctor would be mortified. But it’s what I’d like and I don’t suppose the doctor needs to find out.’
Freja giggled. She pulled one of Herr Berna’s chocolates from her pocket, broke off a square and popped it into Lady P’s mouth.
The woman closed her eyes, sucked at the chocolat
e and sighed. ‘Ooooh! Delicious!’
‘You’re very cheerful, Lady P,’ said Freja, snuggling down between the two women. ‘Considering you’ve just fallen off a cliff.’
‘Hmmm,’ said Lady P. ‘No point in moping. I ache, of course, and this broken leg is really rather annoying. Reminds me of ballet lessons when I was a little girl — all that hopping and twirling about with one leg in the air. Ridiculous! But one can’t be focusing on the dim things in life, can one? Better to look on the bright side — which, for now, is that I have a charming girl and a famous zoologist by my side. And to add to the fun, I have a piece of chocolate melting in my cheek and there’s a friendly dog chewing the bandage off my right leg.’
‘Finnegan!’ scolded Freja, but the dog ignored her and Lady P seemed rather glad for the distraction.
‘But what happened?’ asked Freja. ‘Can you remember? Did you trip? Did you forget to look where you were walking and just wander off the edge of the lookout?’ It seemed quite possible. Tobias did that sort of thing all the time.
Lady P pressed her lips together and stared at the ceiling. ‘I can’t quite recall,’ she said. ‘I have amnesia. I do remember taking the cable car to the top of the mountain with Jane, my secretary and travelling companion. I recall grabbing for Jane and falling. Or did Jane try to grab me and I fell anyway?’ Her breath caught and her hand flew to her chest.
‘Lady P?’ asked Freja. ‘Is everything okay? Should I call the nurse? Do you need a sip of water? Another piece of chocolate?’
The woman shook her head. ‘No, no. I just had the most dreadful thought. But, no! It can’t possibly be right. My head is all a-muddle and no surprise. I have had a nasty fall.’
‘Did you come to Switzerland for the mountain walking?’ asked Clementine, her voice starting to slur with sleepiness. ‘Freja and I love mountain walking.’
‘Nooo . . .’ said Lady P, slowly, thoughtfully. ‘I don’t think so . . . There’s something else . . .’ She pressed her hand to her forehead. ‘There’s a key! Yes! That’s it. I am here because of a key. I remember it now!’ She turned to Freja and smiled. ‘Oh, it is lovely to talk, to remember once more. My mind has been quite a blank these past few days.’
The Girl, the Dog and the Writer in Lucerne (The Girl, the Dog and the Writer, #3) Page 6
