The Lollipop Shoes

by Joanne Harris

  Outside the shop, the wind-chimes are still, but I can hear it even so: a resonance like that of a tuning-fork that makes my head ache and the hairs on my arms stand on end.

  Turn over the cards, one by one.

  Their faces are more than familiar.

  Death; the Lovers; the Hanged Man; Change.

  The Fool; the Magus; the Tower.

  I shuffle the cards and try again.

  The Lovers. The Hanged Man. Change. Death.

  Again, the same cards, in a different order, as if what pursues me has subtly altered.

  The Magus; the Tower; the Fool.

  The Fool has red hair, and is playing a flute. He reminds me somehow of the Pied Piper in his feathered hat and patchwork coat – gazing up into the sky, heedless of the dangerous ground. Has he opened the chasm at his feet himself, a trap for whoever might follow him? Or will he go recklessly over the edge?

  I hardly slept at all after that. The wind and my dreams conspired to wake me, and on top of that Rosette was restless, less cooperative than at any time in the past six months, and I spent three hours trying to get her to sleep. Nothing worked: not hot chocolate in her special cup; not any of her favourite toys; not her monkey nightlight or her special blanket (an oatmeal-coloured disaster upon which she dotes); not even my mother’s lullaby.

  I thought she seemed excited rather than upset, only wailing and hiccuping when I was about to leave, but otherwise perfectly happy for both of us to be wide awake.

  Baby, signed Rosette.

  ‘It’s night-time, Rosette. Go to sleep.’

  Go see baby, she signed again.

  ‘We can’t now. Tomorrow, maybe.’

  Outside, the wind rattled the window-frames. Inside, a row of small objects – a domino, a pencil, a piece of chalk, two plastic animal figurines – skittered down from the mantelpiece on to the floor.

  ‘Please, Rosette. Not now. Go to sleep, and tomorrow, we’ll see.’

  At two-thirty I finally managed to get her to sleep, closing the door between us and lying down on my sagging bed. Not quite a double bed, though too large for a single one, it was already old when we moved in, and the random percussion of its broken springs has been the cause of many a sleepless night. Tonight it was an orchestra, and at just after five I gave up on sleep and went downstairs to make coffee.

  Outside, it was raining; a fat, heavy rain that sluiced down the alleyway and spouted exuberantly from the guttering. I picked up a blanket that had been lying on the stairs and took it, with my coffee, into the front of the shop. Then I sat down in one of Zozie’s armchairs (so much more comfortable than the ones upstairs), and, with only the soft yellow light from the kitchen filtering out through the half-closed door, I curled up and waited for morning to come.

  I must have dozed off – a sound awoke me. It was Anouk, barefoot in her red-and-blue checked pyjamas, a blurry shimmer at her heels that could only be Pantoufle. I have noticed over the past few years that although by day Pantoufle can disappear for weeks, and sometimes months on end, he is a stronger and more persistent presence at night. As I suppose he has to be; all children are afraid of the dark. Anouk came over, slid under the blanket and curled up against me with her hair in my face and her cold feet tucked up behind my knees, as she used to when she was much younger, in the days when things were simple.

  ‘I couldn’t sleep. The ceiling drips.’

  Ah, yes. I’d forgotten. There’s a leak in the roof, which no one so far has quite managed to fix. That’s the problem with these old buildings. However much work is done on them, there’s always something new to address: a rotten window-frame; a broken gutter; woodworm in the joist; a cracked slate. And though Thierry has always been generous, I don’t like to ask him too often for help. It’s nonsense, I know; but I don’t like to ask.

  ‘I was thinking about our party,’ she said. ‘Does Thierry really have to come? You know he’ll ruin everything.’

  I gave a sigh. ‘Oh, please. Not now.’ Anouk’s violent enthusiasms usually amuse me, but not at six in the morning.

  ‘Go on, Maman,’ she said. ‘Couldn’t we just not invite him this time?’

  ‘We’ll be fine,’ I said. ‘You’ll see.’ I was quite aware that it wasn’t an answer, and Anouk shifted restlessly, pulling the blanket over her head. She smelt of vanilla and lavender and the faint, sheepy scent of her tangled hair, grown coarser over the past four years, like uncarded wild wool.

  Rosette’s hair is still baby-fine, like milkweed and marigolds, rubbed thin at the back where her head rests against the pillow at night. Four years old in less than two weeks, and she still has the look of a much younger child: arms and legs like little pipes, eyes too large for her small face. My Cat Baby, I used to call her, back in the days when it was still a joke.

  My Cat Baby. My changeling.

  Under the blanket, Anouk moved again, tucking her face into my shoulder and her hands into my armpit.

  ‘You’re cold,’ I said.

  She shook her head.

  ‘How about a cup of hot chocolate?’

  She shook her head, more violently. I found myself marvelling at the way these little things can tear at the heart – the forgotten kiss, the discarded toy, the unwanted story, the look of annoyance where once there would have been a smile . . .

  Children are knives, my mother once said. They don’t mean to, but they cut. And yet we cling to them, don’t we, we clasp them until the blood flows. My summer child, grown stranger as the year turns, and it struck me how long it had been since she had let me hold her this way, and I wished it could be longer, but the clock on the wall said six-fifteen—

  ‘Get into my bed, Nanou. It’s warmer there, and the ceiling won’t drip.’

  ‘What about Thierry?’ she said.

  ‘We’ll talk about it later, Nanou.’

  ‘Rosette doesn’t want him,’ said Anouk.

  ‘How on earth can you know that?’

  Anouk shrugged. ‘I just know.’

  I sighed and kissed the top of her head. Again, that sheepy-vanilla scent – and with it, something stronger and more adult, which I finally identified as frankincense. Zozie burns it in her rooms. I know Anouk spends a lot of time there, talking and trying on her clothes. It’s good for her to have someone like Zozie; an adult – not me – in whom to confide.

  ‘You ought to give Thierry a chance. I know he’s not perfect, but he really likes you—’

  ‘You don’t really want him either,’ she said. ‘You don’t even miss him when he’s not there. You’re not in love.’

  ‘Now don’t start that,’ I said, exasperated. ‘There are lots of different ways of loving. I love you; and I love Rosette; and just because what I feel for Thierry isn’t the same, it doesn’t mean that I—’

  But Anouk wasn’t listening. She struggled out from under the blanket, shaking herself free of my arms. I know what this is about, I thought. She liked Thierry well enough before Roux came back, and when he’s gone—

  ‘I know what’s best. I’m doing this for you, Nanou.’

  Anouk shrugged, looking very like Roux.

  ‘Trust me. We’re going to be fine.’

  ‘Whatever,’ she said, and went upstairs.

  10

  Friday, 7th December

  OH DEAR. IT’S so sad when communications break down between a mother and her daughter. Especially a pair as close as these two. Today Vianne was tired; I could see it in her face. I don’t think she slept very much last night. Too tired, in any case, to notice the growing resentment in her daughter’s eyes, or the way she turns to me for approval.

  Still, Vianne’s loss can be my gain; and now I am on the scene, so to speak, I can make my influence felt in a hundred inconspicuous new ways. Let’s start with the skills that Vianne has so cleverly subverted: those wonderful weapons of will and desire—

  So far I have still not found out what Anouk fears from using them. Something happened, certainly; something for which she feels
responsible. But weapons are meant to be used, Nanou. For good or for ill. It’s your choice.

  For the moment she still lacks confidence, but I have assured her that no possible harm can come of a little working or two. She may even use them on behalf of others – it rankles, of course, but we can cure her of selflessness later on – and by then, it won’t be a novelty, and we can work on essential things.

  So what is it you want, Anouk?

  What is it that you really want?

  Well, of course, those things that every good child wants. To do well at school; to be popular; to gain petty revenge on her enemies. Those things are easily dealt with, and we can move on to working with people.

  There’s Madame Luzeron, so like a sad old porcelain doll with her pale, powdered face and her precise, brittle movements. She needs to buy more chocolate; three rum truffles a week is hardly enough to justify our attention.

  Then there’s Laurent, who comes every day and sits for hours over a single cup. He’s more of a nuisance than anything. His presence can discourage the rest – especially Richard and Mathurin, who would otherwise call round every day – and he steals the sugar lumps from the bowl, filling his pockets with the air of a man who means to get his money’s worth.

  Then there’s Fat Nico. An excellent customer, buying up to six boxes a week. But Anouk worries about his health; has noticed him walking up the Butte and is alarmed at the effort it takes him even to climb a flight of steps. He shouldn’t be so fat, she says. Is there a way to help him too?

  Well, you and I know that you don’t get far by granting wishes. But the way to her heart is a tortuous one, and if I’m not wrong, the returns will be more than worth my while. Meanwhile I let her amuse herself – as a kitten may sharpen its claws on a ball of wool in readiness for its first mouse.

  And so our curriculum begins. Lesson One, sympathetic magic.

  In other words, dolls.

  We make the dolls out of wooden clothes-pegs – it’s far less messy than using clay – and she carries them around with her, two in each pocket, awaiting the moment to test them out.

  Peg-doll one: Madame Luzeron. Tall and stiff in a dress made from a stray piece of taffeta tied with rusty ribbon. Hair made out of cotton wool; little black shoes and dusky shawl. Features drawn on in felt pen – Nanou pulling a dreadful face as she concentrates on getting the expression just right – there’s even a cotton-wool replica of her fuzzy little dog, attached to Madame’s belt with a twist of pipe-cleaner. It will do; and a strand of Madame’s hair, carefully picked from the back of her coat, will complete the figure in no time at all.

  Peg-doll two is Anouk herself. There is an uncanny accuracy to the small figures she creates: this one has Anouk’s curly hair, and is dressed in a piece of yellow cloth, with Pantoufle in grey wool, perched on her shoulder.

  Peg-doll three is Thierry le Tresset, complete with his mobile phone.

  Peg-doll four is Vianne Rocher; dressed in a bright-red party frock, rather than her usual black. In fact I’ve only ever seen her wear red on one occasion. But in Anouk’s mind, Mother wears red; the colour of life and love and magic. That’s interesting. I can use that. But later, perhaps, when the time is right.

  Meanwhile, I have other work to do. Not least in the chocolaterie; with Christmas approaching in giant strides, it’s time to really build up that clientèle; to find out who has been naughty or nice; to try, test, taste our winter stock – and perhaps add a few special little extras of our own.

  Chocolate can act as a medium for many things. Our hand-made truffles – still a favourite – are rolled in a mixture of cocoa powder, icing sugar and a number of additional substances of which my mother would certainly not have approved, but which ensure that our customers are not only satisfied, but refreshed, energized and eager for more. Today we sold thirty-six boxes of the truffles alone, with orders left for a dozen extra. At this rate we could top a hundred a day by Christmas.

  Thierry called round at five today to report on the progress of the flat. He seemed slightly bewildered at the unusual level of activity in the shop, and, I would say, not entirely pleased.

  ‘It’s like a factory in there,’ he remarked, with a nod at the kitchen door, where Vianne was making mendiants du roi – thick slices of candied orange dipped in dark chocolate and scattered with edible gold leaf – so pretty it’s almost a shame to eat them, and perfect for the season, of course. ‘Doesn’t she ever take any time off?’

  I smiled. ‘You know. The Christmas rush.’

  He grunted. ‘I’ll be glad when it’s all over with. I’ve never been so pushed with a job. Still, it’s going to be worth it – assuming I get it done on time . . .’

  I saw Anouk shoot him a look as she sat at the table with Rosette.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘A promise is a promise. It’s going to be the best Christmas ever. Just the four of us, at Rue de la Croix. We can go to midnight Mass at the Sacré-Coeur. Wouldn’t that be great, eh?’

  ‘Maybe.’ Her voice was expressionless.

  I saw him suppress an impatient sigh. Anouk can be very hard work, and her resistance to him is palpable. Perhaps this is because of Roux, still absent, but always in her thoughts. I’ve seen him regularly, of course, a couple of times on the Butte itself, once crossing Place du Tertre, once going down the stairs by the funicular – moving fast and with a knitted cap to cover his hair, as if he’s afraid to be recognized.

  I’ve also met up with him at the hostel in which he is staying, to check on his progress, to feed him lies, to cash his cheques and to ensure that he stays docile and obedient. He’s getting understandably impatient by now, and a little hurt that Vianne has not yet asked for him. Plus he’s working all hours for Thierry, of course, beginning at eight in the morning and often finishing late at night, and when he leaves Rue de la Croix he’s sometimes too tired even to eat, but goes back to his hostel and sleeps like the dead.

  As for Vianne, I sense her concern – and her disappointment, too. She has not been to Rue de la Croix. Anouk, too, is under strict instructions to stay away. If Roux wants to see them, he’ll come, Vianne says. If not – well. It’s his choice.

  Thierry was looking more impatient than ever. He stepped into the kitchen, where Vianne was carefully laying out the finished mendiants on to a sheet of baking paper. I thought there was something furtive in the way he pulled the door half-closed, and I noticed his colours were brighter than usual, edged with jittery reds and purples.

  ‘I’ve hardly seen you all this week.’ His voice carries; I could hear it quite clearly from the front of the shop. Vianne’s is less easy to hear; a murmur of something like protest, perhaps. The sound of a scuffle. His giant laughter. ‘Come on. One kiss. I’ve missed you, Yanne.’

  That murmur again, her voice rising. ‘Thierry, be careful. The chocolates—’

  I hid a smile. The old goat. Getting frisky, is he? Well, that doesn’t surprise me at all. That chivalrous façade may have fooled Vianne, but men, like dogs, are predictable, Thierry le Tresset more than most. Beneath his apparent self-confidence, Thierry is deeply insecure, and the arrival of Roux has made him more so. He has become territorial, both at Rue de la Croix, where his hold on Roux gives him a strange, unacknowledged thrill, and here at Le Rocher de Montmartre.

  I heard Vianne’s voice faintly through the door. ‘Thierry, please. This isn’t the time.’

  Meanwhile Anouk was listening. Her face showed no expression at all, but her colours gleamed. I smiled at her. She didn’t smile back. Instead she glanced at the door and made a little beckoning movement with her fingers. Anyone else would have missed it. She might not even have known she was making it. But at the same moment, a draught seemed to catch at the kitchen door and it swung open sharply, slamming against the painted wall.

  A small interruption, but it was enough. I caught a flash of annoyance from Thierry’s colours, a kind of relief from Vianne herself. Of course this impatience is new to her; she is so used to
thinking of him as an avuncular figure: dependable; safe, if a little dull. His new possessiveness is slightly overwhelming, and for the first time she is dimly aware of a feeling, not just of alarm, but of distaste.

  It’s all because of Roux, she thinks. All her doubts will leave with him. But for now the uncertainty makes her nervous, unreasonable. She kisses Thierry on the mouth – guilt is sea-green, in the language of colours – and gives him a smile that is over-bright.

  ‘I’ll make it up to you,’ she says.

  With two fingers of her right hand, Anouk makes a tiny gesture of dismissal.

  Opposite, on her little chair, Rosette is watching her, bright-eyed. She copies the sign – tsk-tsk, begone! – and Thierry slaps a hand to the back of his neck, as if an insect has stung him there. The wind-chimes ring—

  ‘I have to go.’

  Indeed he does; clumsy in his big overcoat, he almost trips as he opens the door. Anouk’s hand is in her pocket now, where she keeps his peg-doll safe. She pulls it out and goes to the display window, where she places it carefully outside the house.

  ‘Bye, Thierry,’ says Anouk.

  Rosette signs with her fingers. Bye-bye.

  The door slams shut. The children smile.

  It’s really very draughty today.

  11

  Saturday, 8th December

  WELL, IT’S A start. The balance is shifting. Nanou may not see it, but I do. Little things, benign at first, that will make her mine in no time at all.

  She stayed in the shop for most of today, playing with Rosette, helping out – and waiting for another chance to use those new peg-dolls of hers. She found one in Madame Luzeron, who came in mid-morning – though it wasn’t her day – with her fluffy little dog in tow.

  ‘Back so soon?’ I smiled at her. ‘We must be doing something right.’

  I saw that her face looked rather drawn; and she was wearing her cemetery coat, which meant that she must have called there again. Perhaps a special day, I thought – a birthday or an anniversary – in any case, she looked tired and vaguely brittle, and her gloved hands were shaking with cold.