The Patron Saint of Lost Souls

by Menna Van Praag

‘I’m hungry.’

  ‘Me too. How about a Chinese takeaway?’

  ‘Sure.’ With a shrug, Gertie turns and begins walking away across the cemetery, carefully stepping between the graves until she reaches the path, not once glancing back to check on her aunt’s progress.

  They walk home via the Golden Wok, carrying a bag heavy with numerous plastic boxes full of greasy noodles. Gertie walks five steps in front, hugging the hot bag to her chest, hurrying on.

  ‘Careful!’ Jude calls, nervous of the ice under the little girl’s feet.

  Gertie ignores her. Jude quickens to catch up with her niece. They walk side by side in silence.

  ‘You know,’ Jude says, tentative, ‘it might help – I mean, if you talked with me about your mum, you might feel …’

  Gertie turns her head, eyes narrowed. ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t know, a bit … better? I don’t—’

  ‘Yeah, you don’t know,’ Gertie says. ‘You don’t have a clue about anything.’

  Jude swallows a sigh, feeling utterly unable to deal with Gertie’s fluctuating, erratic emotions and wishing that the counselling sessions promised by the social workers had been implemented immediately.

  ‘No, I don’t, of course I don’t, but I’m trying and—’

  ‘Can’t you try a bit harder?’ Gertie mutters. ‘You’re nothing like Mum, not at all. You’re, you’re … bloody fucking useless!’ At the last word she takes off running, dropping the bag so it breaks open and scatters plastic boxes across the road, one lid snaps open sending noodles and fried vegetables sliding into the snow.

  ‘Wait!’ Jude shouts, running after her niece. ‘Wait!’

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  ‘I swear she puts cocaine in this stuff,’ Mathieu says, taking the last sip with a sigh. ‘Though she’s not charging enough if she does.’

  Viola smiles. ‘Sugar,’ she says. ‘It’s the culinary equivalent of hard drugs. Although, it’s not especially sweet.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘I’ve been trying to work out what she puts in it for years,’ Viola says. ‘But I can never make it last long enough to fully analyse the ingredients.’

  ‘That’s probably why she only allows everyone a single cup,’ Mathieu says. ‘In order to preserve her secrets.’

  Viola laughs. ‘Yes, I expect so. I can identify all the common flavours: nutmeg, vanilla, cardamom, all that. But there’s one that lingers at the end, after the chilli and—’

  ‘Canela.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s Canela,’ Mathieu says. ‘It’s a Mexican herb, also known as Ceylon, or true cinnamon.’

  Viola looks at him, eyes wide. ‘That’s amazing. How do you know that?’

  Mathieu raises an eyebrow. ‘I had a wild youth.’

  Viola laughs. How is it possible to, so suddenly, feel so deeply for an absolute stranger? She knows virtually nothing about this man and yet she wants to do things with him she’s never wanted to do before: get married, have babies. It’s ridiculous. It must be hormonal, pheromones, something like that. She should stand up, walk away, before she makes a total fool of herself.

  ‘Smoked a few too many Ceylon joints?’

  Mathieu nods. ‘Something like that. She also puts epazote in it – not much, just a few pinches, but it’s definitely there.’

  Viola frowns. ‘Epazote?’

  ‘It’s hard to describe, it’s a very particular taste. It’s like Marmite, you either love it or you hate it, which is probably why she uses so little, most people wouldn’t even notice it, if they didn’t know what it was.’

  Viola, feeling suddenly inadequate, regards him. ‘Are you a chef?’

  Mathieu laughs. ‘Hardly. You should have seen the cake Hugo and I made the other night. Even a goat on a diet of discarded, sweaty slippers wouldn’t have touched it.’

  ‘Then how do you know so much about flavours?’

  ‘I eat a lot,’ he says. ‘I did my PhD on the history of food and economics at the court of Versailles.’

  ‘You did?’

  Mathieu nods. ‘It was just an excuse to eat a lot of macarons.’

  ‘I love macarons.’

  Mathieu smiles. ‘What’s your favourite flavour?’

  ‘Jasmine,’ Viola says, without hesitation. ‘Alain Ducasse.’

  Mathieu raises an eyebrow. ‘You know your macarons.’

  ‘I should.’ Viola smiles. ‘I am a chef.’

  ‘Really? How wonderful. My wife was a magnificent cook.’

  Viola feels an inner flinch, a slight sorrow at the sight of how his eyes brighten at the mention of his wife, how his voice softens with the words. It would be madness to fall in love with a man who is so clearly still in love with his wife. How can she possibly compete with the dead?

  ‘Was she a chef?’

  Mathieu shakes his head. ‘She might have been, if she’d wanted to be. But V loved books even more than she loved food.’

  ‘V?’

  ‘Yes, like yours,’ he says, ‘but she was Virginie.’

  ‘Lovely name.’ Viola is sorry, still, at the tenderness of his voice – could she ever evoke such feelings? – but she’s touched that he remembers her name. Now would be a good time to ask him to remind her of his, but she’s slightly too embarrassed. Viola once worked an entire month with a sous-chef whose name she’d forgotten and didn’t find out until he was fired.

  ‘Yes,’ Mathieu says. ‘So is Viola.’

  ‘My father was a fan of Shakespeare.’

  Mathieu frowns.

  ‘Twelfth Night,’ Viola explains. ‘She’s the heroine.’

  ‘Ah,’ he says. ‘I confess, I don’t know my Shakespeare as well as I might.’

  Viola shrugs. ‘Why should you? You’re not—you’re French. I don’t know … I’ve never even read Proust.’

  Mathieu smiles, leaning in. ‘Neither have I,’ he says, dropping his voice to a whisper. ‘But don’t tell anyone, or they might take away my passport.’

  Viola laughs. ‘Well, I’m afraid I can’t excuse you that. If I’m asked to give evidence at your deportation hearing, I won’t be able to defend you.’

  ‘You’re cruel.’

  ‘I know.’

  They lapse into silence.

  ‘You know,’ Viola says. ‘I’ve been trying to solve the mystery of that mulled wine for most of my life. So, thank you for that.’

  ‘You’re welcome. I’m sorry I didn’t meet you sooner.’

  Me too, Viola is about to say. But the words would be imbued with too much meaning, too much feeling and it’s much too soon for that. She doesn’t want him to think her a lonely mad desperate spinster.

  ‘So, are you studying at the university?’ she says instead.

  ‘Teaching. At St Catharine’s.’

  ‘Ah.’ She pauses. ‘OK, so I’m loath to admit it, but remind me where that one is again.’

  Mathieu laughs. ‘Now I won’t be able to defend you at your deportation hearing. I think the authorities would evict you from Cambridge if they heard you say that.’

  ‘Hey,’ Viola protests. ‘There are so many bloody colleges, I can’t be expected to know them all.’

  Mathieu smiles. ‘It’s the one just after Fitzbillies and just before King’s College.’

  Viola frowns. ‘Corpus Christi?’

  ‘No, the one opposite.’

  ‘Oh. I always thought that was Emmanuel.’

  Mathieu laughs again. ‘You really are useless, aren’t you? That’s on the other side of town.’ He reaches out, in his exuberance, to touch her lightly on the arm.

  Viola rests her gaze on the spot. ‘I definitely don’t deserve to live here.’

  Mathieu smiles. ‘You don’t.’

  ‘Perhaps I ought to move to Paris.’

  ‘Perhaps. I can only recommend it.’

  Now Viola meets his eye. ‘Why did you leave? I mean, if you lived there.’

  ‘I did,’ Mathieu says. ‘But, I …’

&
nbsp; He glances down at his empty cup, pressing his nail into the rim. Something shifts between them, the tone all of a sudden serious, and they fall into silence again. Viola wracks her mind for something light-hearted to say but her mind is blank. She wants to stay, wants to talk, wants to touch him. But as every second passes her embarrassment deepens, until Viola can’t stand it any more. She glances at her watch. ‘I should go.’

  Don’t, Mathieu wants to say. Stay. Please, stay.

  ‘Well, thank you so much,’ he says, ‘for this very pleasant diversion from my otherwise utterly uneventful morning.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Viola says, ‘for the wine.’

  ‘You’re very welcome.’

  Viola stands up from the wall of King’s College upon which they’ve been sitting. It’s been such a lovely half-hour they’ve passed together, soft, sweet, funny, that Viola is loath for it to end. But she’s also aware that the longer she stays the more likely it is that she, or he, will say something disagreeable or foolish and the whole thing will turn sour. Much better to leave now and have it remain lovely, even if it never happens again. But oh, how much she’d love it to happen again. She lingers, glancing down the street but not stepping away. Mathieu looks up at her but he doesn’t stand.

  ‘Perhaps,’ he says.

  Viola meets his eye. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well, I was just thinking …’

  Viola waits.

  Mathieu is smiling, is about to finish his sentence, when he has a thought – Viola can see it pass across his face and, though she doesn’t know what it is, she can tell that it isn’t a happy one – and his smile fades and his words fail.

  ‘I should probably get going too,’ he says, as he stands. ‘I should do something even vaguely productive before I pick Hugo up from school.’

  Viola nods. ‘Of course, me too. I mean – well, you know.’

  Mathieu nods in return and sticks out his hand. ‘It was very lovely to meet you, Viola.’

  She takes his hand, trying to swallow down the disappointment rising in her throat, and shakes it.

  ‘You too.’

  Viola has let go, has turned and started walking away when she realises she hasn’t once thought about the competition, not since meeting—and then Viola realises something else: she still can’t remember his name.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Jude catches up with Gertie at the corner of Greet Street, but only because her niece has stopped running and is now leaning against the wall, sobbing.

  ‘Oh, Gert—’

  ‘Don’t call me that,’ Gertie snaps. ‘Don’t!’

  ‘Sorry, sorry I didn’t mean to, I just … Sweetheart, it’s OK, it’s going to be—’

  ‘No, it’s not,’ Gertie spits. ‘It’s never going to be OK again, never ever again.’ She slides down the wall to sit in the snow.

  Jude bends her legs, folds her coat under her knees and sits down beside her.

  ‘OK, you’re right,’ she admits, ‘it might never—it’ll never be the same again. But, one day, one day it – you – will be OK again. You will be happy again.’

  ‘How do you know?’ Gertie snaps, wiping her eyes. ‘You don’t know anything about me. You only met me five days ago.’ She falls silent. ‘Anyway, your mum died years ago and you’re still not happy yet, are you?’

  ‘Well, um, I … but that isn’t because of my mum, I mean, not just because of that, there’s lots of other reasons why I’m not … happy.’

  Gertie glances up. ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like …’ Jude wonders if the conversation is going down a helpful path or not but, in the absence of knowing what else to say, she surrenders to it. ‘Well, I didn’t have a very happy childhood to start with and—’

  ‘But you’re not a child any more, are you?’ Gertie says. ‘You’re old.’

  At this, Jude can’t help but smile. ‘Steady on. But, yes, I’m a lot older now but these things leave … they have an impact on you for the rest of …’ She trails off, realising that this is entirely the wrong thing to say.

  Gertie nods, triumphant. ‘See? That’s exactly what I said. I’m never going to be OK again, just like you’re not.’

  Jude silently swears at her mistake. ‘Well, no, but it doesn’t have to be that way for you. I mean, it can be different, I didn’t … I’ll help you and together—’

  ‘But how can you help me?’ Gertie says, triumph now tainted with sorrow. ‘If you couldn’t even do it yourself, how can you … how will you ever be able to help me?’

  Jude reaches towards her niece, across the few feet of freezing, snowy pavement that separates them. But Gertie flinches away and stands, quickly, brushing off her coat.

  ‘I don’t want to go back to your flat,’ she says. ‘I want to go to the shop. I want to go to Gatsby’s.’

  Slowly, Jude stands too, brushing off her own coat, placing her numb fingers against her sodden bottom and sighing. All she wants to do is go home, take a hot bath and eat something or, even better, drink an enormous glass of red wine while thawing out her limbs in gloriously scorching water.

  ‘OK,’ Jude says. ‘But shall we go and rescue our dinner first?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking.’ Gertie sits cross-legged on the floor, spooning what remains of the noodles into her mouth.

  Jude looks at Gertie, as if she’s an easily startled deer who might dart off – or, in this case, stop talking – at any moment.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about …’

  Jude waits.

  ‘I was thinking that maybe,’ Gertie’s voice drops to a whisper. ‘Maybe you could help me to find my dad.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Gertie shrugs, but this time it isn’t effortless.

  ‘I didn’t realise,’ Jude says carefully, ‘I didn’t realise you wanted to …’

  But she sees, in the second awkward shrug, that this is something Gertie has clearly been thinking about quite a lot.

  ‘Did you ever ask – did your Mum tell you anything about him? Did she ever try to find him?’

  ‘We never talked about him. I don’t think Mum liked him very much and I didn’t want to ask anything, in case I upset her.’ She takes a deep breath. ‘I didn’t want her to think that she … that I wasn’t happy with her, just the two of us …’

  Jude nods. ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘But it’s not the same with you, so I thought, maybe …’

  Jude sits up. ‘Of course we can look for your father. I don’t know if we’ll find him, and …’ Jude is tentative. ‘We don’t know how he might react when …’

  ‘I know, I know he might not want me. But I want to try and see, OK? Maybe I’ll get a father then, but if I don’t look for him, I’ll never have one.’

  Jude nods again. ‘Well, yes, I suppose you’re right.’ Except he might reject you out of hand and then you’ll have your heart doubly broken, Jude thinks with a shudder.

  ‘Thanks,’ Gertie says, returning to her noodles.

  Jude marvels at the mercurial nature of children, at how their moods change so suddenly and dramatically. It’s a relief, though, that Gertie doesn’t hold a grudge.

  ‘And I’m sorry too,’ Gertie adds. ‘I was a bit nasty to you today.’

  Jude feels her eyes fill. ‘That’s OK, sweetheart, you had every right to be. I shouldn’t have taken you there, I shouldn’t have behaved the way I did, especially not in front of you.’

  Gertie shrugs, effortless again. ‘You were sad, that’s why you shouted, because you were so sad.’

  Jude frowns. ‘I wasn’t sad, sweetie. I was angry. But I shouldn’t have let you see that.’

  ‘Oh, Aunt Jude,’ Gertie says, ‘You’re the saddest person I’ve ever met.’

  ‘I am not,’ Jude protests.

  Ignoring her, Gertie muses. ‘Maybe we’ll find my father and he’ll fall in love with you and you’ll get married.’

  Despite herself, Jude laughs. ‘Oh, Ger—sweetheart, I’m afraid the odds against that are astro—ver
y big indeed. He’s probably already married and, even if he’s single, if he was with your mum, he’ll never be interested in me.’

  Gertie raises a single eyebrow. ‘Oh, you have no clue.’

  Jude frowns. ‘About what?’

  Her niece sighs. ‘About anything at all.’

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Viola can’t focus. She should be thinking about the competition, she should be planning and perfecting her recipes, testing them out, tasting. But since meeting the Frenchman she just can’t concentrate. Was she wrong to think that there was something between them? A connection, a frisson? Was she wrong to think that he felt it too? Could it all have been her imagination? Wishful thinking? Is she really so clueless, so delusional? Surely not. And yet, perhaps. If you want something so much, if you desire another, might you just believe that they desire you too?

  As she seasons poulet de Bresse with pepper, salt and a touch of rosemary, and fries it gently over a low flame, Viola replays the scene over and over again in her mind. She recalls the way he looked at her, the way he spoke, the words he used. And then, she remembers how he talked about his wife, the tenderness in his eyes, the softness of his voice.

  ‘Vi – the poulet – Vite! I need it on the pass now! Where are you?!’

  Viola snaps herself back. ‘Sorry, Chef! It’s coming now.’ She glances down at the pan, grateful to all the culinary gods that she hasn’t burnt the skin, and lifts it off the heat.

  At the end of her shift, as Viola is scrubbing down the stainless steel counters, she catches sight of Henri watching her as he leans against the walk-in fridge. She nods at him, then resumes scrubbing.

  ‘Busy night, eh?’ He says, walking towards her.

  ‘No more than usual.’ Viola doesn’t look up. It wouldn’t do to fraternise with the enemy. She can’t afford to befriend Henri, it’ll throw her off her game, it’ll compromise her fighting spirit, which is probably exactly what he’s trying to do now, sneaky bugger.

  ‘You never take a break, huh?’ Henri comes closer, until he’s only a few feet away.