looked downcast and the baby – Pierrot himself, of course – was sound asleep. There was a date inscribed in the right-hand corner –
1929
– and the name of the photographer –
Matthias Reinhardt Photography, Montmartre
. Pierrot knew exactly where Montmartre was. He could remember standing on the steps of the Sacré Coeur church while his mother told him how she had come there as a girl in 1919, just after the end of the Great War, to watch Cardinal Amette consecrate the basilica. She loved to wander through the flea markets, watching the artists as they painted on the streets; sometimes she, Wilhelm and Pierrot would spend an entire afternoon just strolling around, eating snacks when they grew hungry, before making their way back home. It was a place where they had been happy as a family; when Papa was not as troubled as he would one day become; before Maman had fallen ill.
Leaving the room, Pierrot looked around for Beatrix but she was nowhere to be seen, and when he roared out her name she appeared quickly from the front parlour.
‘Pieter,’ she cried. ‘Don’t ever do that! There can be no running or shouting in this house. The master can’t abide noise.’
‘Although he makes plenty of it himself,’ said Emma, stepping out of the kitchen, drying her wet hands on a tea towel. ‘Doesn’t mind throwing a tantrum whenever he feels like it, does he? Shouts his bloody head off when things aren’t going right.’
Beatrix spun round and stared at the cook as if she had lost her mind. ‘One of these days that tongue of yours is going to get you into a lot of trouble,’ she said.
‘You’re not above me,’ replied Emma, pointing a finger at her. ‘So don’t act like you are. Cook and housekeeper are equal.’
‘I’m not trying to be above you, Emma,’ said Beatrix in an exhausted tone that suggested she had endured this conversation before. ‘I simply want you to realize how dangerous your words can be. Think whatever you want, but don’t say such things out loud. Am I the only person in this house who has any sense?’
‘I speak as I find,’ said Emma. ‘Always have done, always will do.’
‘Fine. Well, you speak like that to the master’s face and see where it gets you.’
Emma snorted, but it was obvious from the expression on her face that she would do no such thing. Pierrot began to worry about this master. Everyone seemed so afraid of him. And yet he’d been nice enough to allow Pierrot to come to live there. It was all very confusing.
‘Where’s the boy?’ asked Emma, looking around.
‘I’m right here,’ said Pierrot.
‘So you are. I can never find you when I want you. It’s because you’re so small. Don’t you think it’s about time you grew a little bigger?’
‘Leave him alone, Emma,’ said Beatrix.
‘I don’t mean any harm. He reminds me of those little . . .’ She tapped her forehead, trying to remember the word. ‘Who are those little fellows in that book?’ she asked.
‘What little fellows?’ asked Beatrix. ‘What book?’
‘You know!’ insisted Emma. ‘The man arrives on the island and he’s a giant compared to them, so they tie him up and—’
‘Lilliputians,’ said Pierrot, interrupting her. ‘They’re in
Gulliver’s Travels
.’
Both women stared at him in surprise. ‘How did you know that?’ asked Beatrix.
‘I’ve read it,’ he said with a shrug. ‘My friend Ansh—’ He corrected himself. ‘The boy who lived downstairs from me in Paris had a copy. And there was one in the library in the orphanage too.’
‘Stop showing off,’ said Emma. ‘Now, I told you that I might have a job for you later on, and I do. You’re not squeamish, are you?’
Pierrot glanced towards his aunt, wondering whether he should go with her instead, but she simply took the cardigan from him and told him to follow Emma. As they walked through the kitchen, he breathed in the wonderful scent of baking that had been going on there since early
1929
– and the name of the photographer –
Matthias Reinhardt Photography, Montmartre
. Pierrot knew exactly where Montmartre was. He could remember standing on the steps of the Sacré Coeur church while his mother told him how she had come there as a girl in 1919, just after the end of the Great War, to watch Cardinal Amette consecrate the basilica. She loved to wander through the flea markets, watching the artists as they painted on the streets; sometimes she, Wilhelm and Pierrot would spend an entire afternoon just strolling around, eating snacks when they grew hungry, before making their way back home. It was a place where they had been happy as a family; when Papa was not as troubled as he would one day become; before Maman had fallen ill.
Leaving the room, Pierrot looked around for Beatrix but she was nowhere to be seen, and when he roared out her name she appeared quickly from the front parlour.
‘Pieter,’ she cried. ‘Don’t ever do that! There can be no running or shouting in this house. The master can’t abide noise.’
‘Although he makes plenty of it himself,’ said Emma, stepping out of the kitchen, drying her wet hands on a tea towel. ‘Doesn’t mind throwing a tantrum whenever he feels like it, does he? Shouts his bloody head off when things aren’t going right.’
Beatrix spun round and stared at the cook as if she had lost her mind. ‘One of these days that tongue of yours is going to get you into a lot of trouble,’ she said.
‘You’re not above me,’ replied Emma, pointing a finger at her. ‘So don’t act like you are. Cook and housekeeper are equal.’
‘I’m not trying to be above you, Emma,’ said Beatrix in an exhausted tone that suggested she had endured this conversation before. ‘I simply want you to realize how dangerous your words can be. Think whatever you want, but don’t say such things out loud. Am I the only person in this house who has any sense?’
‘I speak as I find,’ said Emma. ‘Always have done, always will do.’
‘Fine. Well, you speak like that to the master’s face and see where it gets you.’
Emma snorted, but it was obvious from the expression on her face that she would do no such thing. Pierrot began to worry about this master. Everyone seemed so afraid of him. And yet he’d been nice enough to allow Pierrot to come to live there. It was all very confusing.
‘Where’s the boy?’ asked Emma, looking around.
‘I’m right here,’ said Pierrot.
‘So you are. I can never find you when I want you. It’s because you’re so small. Don’t you think it’s about time you grew a little bigger?’
‘Leave him alone, Emma,’ said Beatrix.
‘I don’t mean any harm. He reminds me of those little . . .’ She tapped her forehead, trying to remember the word. ‘Who are those little fellows in that book?’ she asked.
‘What little fellows?’ asked Beatrix. ‘What book?’
‘You know!’ insisted Emma. ‘The man arrives on the island and he’s a giant compared to them, so they tie him up and—’
‘Lilliputians,’ said Pierrot, interrupting her. ‘They’re in
Gulliver’s Travels
.’
Both women stared at him in surprise. ‘How did you know that?’ asked Beatrix.
‘I’ve read it,’ he said with a shrug. ‘My friend Ansh—’ He corrected himself. ‘The boy who lived downstairs from me in Paris had a copy. And there was one in the library in the orphanage too.’
‘Stop showing off,’ said Emma. ‘Now, I told you that I might have a job for you later on, and I do. You’re not squeamish, are you?’
Pierrot glanced towards his aunt, wondering whether he should go with her instead, but she simply took the cardigan from him and told him to follow Emma. As they walked through the kitchen, he breathed in the wonderful scent of baking that had been going on there since early
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