Lisette's Paris Notebook by Catherine Bateson

Author:Catherine Bateson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Allen & Unwin
Published: 2016-11-22T05:00:00+00:00

‘A time to reap, a time to sew’ – Greatma embroidered those words on a needlework sampler. It’s a misquote from the Bible. I imagine her stitching, pushing her hair from her face the way my mother does. At ten she was making something that would outlast her, something that would be cherished. All the women in my family have sewed. It’s genetic. What else is genetic?

Mum Skyped me early the next morning, afternoon her time. It felt as though months had passed since we’d spoken. We didn’t talk about my father or the money he’d left me or the fact that she had kept photos of him that she’d never shown me. Instead she told me how the weather was becoming colder and that she had made a cape for one of her clients that looked exactly like Red Riding Hood’s coat. I let her talk. I was slightly hungover. I told her about Hugo, but not about Anders.

‘An antique business?’ Mum was excited. ‘Oh, how wonderful, Lisi. And over in France buying for his uncle!’

‘He was very nice,’ I admitted, ‘but not, you know, boyfriend material.’ There was silence, although I could see Mum’s fuzzy frown. I knew what was coming next. ‘Not that I’m looking for a boyfriend. That would be stupid.’

‘Difficult,’ Mum agreed. ‘You’ll be home before you know it and then it will be university and a whole new cast of people. No, you need to concentrate on your French and soak up all that culture, Lisi.’

‘Have you seen Ami?’

‘Yes,’ Mum said, ‘we had dinner together the other night.’

‘She’s never on Facebook,’ I said. ‘I keep leaving her messages.’

‘She’s been working for her uncle – it’s uni holidays.’

‘What are they doing?’

‘Some kind of catering thing,’ Mum said vaguely, ‘you know – office morning-tea parties. Apparently he got some green tea cheaply and they’re experimenting with baking with it.’

‘Baking?’

‘For the catering.’

That sounded just like Ami’s uncle – and, knowing him, it would turn out to be really popular. It also explained why I hadn’t heard from Ami, other than the briefest of messages like waves from a passing car. Then Mum’s phone rang and we hung up. We’d managed the whole conversation without saying anything narky to each other.

By the time I got down to breakfast, Madame Christophe had nearly finished eating and my coffee was lukewarm.

‘You need to go to the Porte de Vanves,’ she announced. ‘Today.’

‘Why?’

‘You will enjoy it and you will find your mother a present from Paris.’

I had a perverse need to rebel. ‘I could go next week,’ I said, pouring more coffee. ‘I’d be better prepared.’

She shrugged. ‘You can certainly go next week,’ she said, ‘but you also need to go today. You can take Napoléon. He will help you haggle. Also, he adores flea markets.’

Napoléon’s world opinions were flexible and opportunistic; however, I loved stepping out, dog in tow. I gave Napoléon a conspiratorial wink while Madame Christophe fussed over his flea-market-suitable collar, which turned out to be a rather smart navy blue number decorated with silver paw prints.

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