When we disembarked from the train, my immediate impression was that Paris smelt funny. Not malodorous as such, just different. Mr Whybrow gave me a chuckle and told me that all major cities had their own distinctive “aura.” Thus reassured, I settled to bask in my second impression, which was one of gaiety, elevated hedonism, and overall confidence. I liked Paris!
I could see that Mr Whybrow was of the same mind. Paris sported that same hint of jocular eccentricity which he himself cultivated as a way of life. I forgot any worries about an object lesson awaiting me; he was hoping I’d enjoy the experience. So, I relaxed and tried to photograph my environment in my mind, down to every last detail. This was something I knew I’d never want to forget.
What immediately stood out was a cathedral at the end of the street, which Mr Whybrow introduced to me as Notre Dame. Mr Whybrow was nobody’s idea of a churchgoer, but he loved its architecture as much as he did the music, and under his tutelage, I had come to respect the labours of men trying to capture the uncapturable in monumental works that took a hundred years to build, but lasted for a thousand.
I’d never been inside a cathedral before, the nearest having been the workhouse chapel before I – ah, rearranged the roof with my top C. Meekly but eagerly, I followed Mr Whybrow as he struck off towards the great doors and led me inside.
It was like stepping into a stone kaleidoscope. The stained glass hung about me, as one of Mr Whybrow’s most spectacular tiaras stretched into something immense. The bullet arches drew the eye naturally upwards, towards heaven; I could not look at the ceiling for long without becoming dizzy.
Mr Whybrow seemed afraid to break the spell as he leaned over to whisper. “If you think this is spectacular, come and see it all from up here.”
“Up where?” I was about to ask, but he was already heading for a spiral staircase. Following him up, it seemed to go on forever and I was gasping by the time we reached a gallery that overlooked the entire cathedral. And he was right about the view. It was like being inside a kaleidoscope that had been stopped for my pleasure. I felt that I could almost reach out and caress the stonework, mediculously positioned by mediaeval craftsmen at risk of their own lives.
Mr Whybrow explained, “It was the French who mastered stained glass, long ago; they sent glaziers to the big Saxon monasteries in the north of England, but they kept the secrets amongst themselves. When they died, their secrets died with them.”
We returned to the nave. Only a few souls were about, but the echo of their steps fluttered about us from wall to wall and from the roof, like furtive bats.
“What are all these little nooks and crannies around the walls?” I dared ask.
“Some are tombs, some private chapels, some – more functional. Any cathedral that hosts an archbishop is inevitably going to be a community in itself.”
I took in the effigies to the church’s luminaries, dead for generations. From time to time, Mr Whybrow stopped and studied a stone figure, as though it meant something to him, but he otherwise let me wander about in a big arc until we had reached the doors, which he held open for me.
“Are you looking for anyone in particular, sir?” I asked, suspecting that he was about to introduce me to a famous musician.
“Archbishop Darboys,” he mused. “The one the Communards shot.”
I’d heard of the Communards, but knew little about what they’d actually done. “What for, sir?”
“Being the Archbishop of Paris,” came the blunt answer. “It was just before you were born; they rounded up all the clergy and – well, the lucky ones were shot. Come on, let’s get some air. There’s more to Paris than a cathedral.”
He obviously did not want to darken our outing by dwelling on a less savoury episode, which I respected. And let’s face it, which most cities have experienced at some point.
Following him outside, we paused at the top of the steps, where I could see what he meant by his last remark. Opposite was a theatre comparable to any in London’s West End, its placard proclaiming the current production to be “1001 nights.” What was not comparable, was the number of street artists chalking out images as good as any painter could manage. In London, someone would have moved them on or charged them with “a public order offence.”
But of more immediate attention was a gypsy girl dancing before a small crowd. Her tanned body flexed like a stiff but supple rope, agitated by a puppetmaster. I was impressed, if that’s the right word, by the amount of skin she was showing. Any woman so daring in London would find themselves arrested in very short order. But then, Caledon had taught me to be a little more open-minded about such things. Here I was, staring at her bare midriff, and I had not been dragged to hell by a horde of screaming demons. So was London really right, to be so dictatorial in matters that could do no harm?
Mr Whybrow might have been reading my mind; a tight little smile knit the corner of his mouth as he led me away in the direction of a windmill overlooking the street. “The Moulin Rouge,” he told me. “Everyone’s heard of it, and now you’ve seen it.”
“I haven’t heard of it, sir,” I gently protested.
“Ah.” Chuckle from Jeweller. “It’s famous for its dancing girls. It’s regarded by many as a hub of immorality.”
He said no more, but waited for me to glimpse the placards outside.
“Is that all they do, sir? Dance? But you’ve seen me wearing less than that.”
“Not dancing in public, I haven’t!” He threw his head back and laughed – curiously, not a head turned to him.
I had to break off to share his laughter, but for a different reason. A dalmatian was relieving itself against a lamp post, and nobody was paying it a bit of attention.
“That’s one custom London and Paris have in common,” Mr Whybrow agreed. “And now, coffee! Don’t worry, it’s far more humane than my stuff. The French do things with it that you won’t believe, but they don’t look down their noses at you if you prefer it black without sugar, either.”
He had obviously been here before, often enough to know the place well. I found myself ushered into an establishment called “Chez Maxim,” which threw welcoming arms out to me with its opulent, plush interior. Mr Whybrow indicated a table and settled himself with the familiarity of a regular. A waiter appeared as if by magic, and Mr Whybrow startled me by rattling off, “B’jour. Deux cafes noirs, s’il vous plait.”
While we waited, he explained to me, “Any lady of substance must at least be able to say that she’s been to Paris, Miss Bluebird. So, here you are. After revolutions, civil wars, multiple switches between monarchy and civil government, we find ourselves in a city where shopgirls rub shoulders with countesses on a far more even footing than you’ll find in London. And whereas Londoners tend to hide their culture away in official galleries, the French take a pride in it and boast about it in public.”
I’d discerned another difference between the two. In London, I’d have been uneasy about being taken anywhere so luxurious. But like Caledon, here I felt as if I belonged.
Mr Whybrow must have noticed my residual unease. He added, “That includes their café culture. In Europe, it’s common to sit outside and watch the world go by, but I thought you’d prefer to sit inside out of habit. Ah, merci.”
The coffee arrived in small cups. It looked every bit as tarry as Mr Whybrow’s own, but an experimental sip proved it to be rich and aromatic. A restorative to be savoured; not just to stimulate the mind, but to mellow it, too. Mr Whybrow let me to enjoy it in my own time, before waving over Garcon for something he called, “l’addition, s’il vous plait.”
When we exited to the street, I felt fortified against whatever lay ahead, which I suspected to involve a lot of walking. Which was no bad thing.
“We’ll grab something more substantial later,” said Mr Whybrow. “You’ll notice that the French take a great deal of pride in indulging their senses, particularly their appetites. Even the smallest, meanest-looking café probably hosts a master chef in its depths, and they’ll take as much trouble over the minutiae of each dish as any of London’s most expensive restaurants.”
So Chez Maxim was merely typical of Paris. Yes, I saw the distinction; in London, most places treated you as though you were putting them to more trouble than you were worth, and those that didn’t, talked down to you as something to be tolerated, rather than indulged. I was getting to like Paris more with every passing moment.
We were heading down a boulevard of a wideness I had never imagined in a city. London streets were so cramped by comparison. This street converged on a distant arch, that was bigger than it appeared. It only waxed larger slowly as we approached. It seemed central to the whole city; I was about to ask Mr Whybrow its significance when a strident buzzing noise entered my hearing – like an airship engine but faster. It grew louder much more rapidly than any airship – yes, despite the echoes from the tall buildings, it was definitely coming from above.
The sound peaked like a bomb burst and before my eyes, a thing like an airship gondola shot through the arch and soared upwards at the speed of a rocket. In the glimpse that I had, I saw that it was like an airship gondola, but it had no gasbag. Just a couple of thin platforms on each side. Oh, and the propeller was on the wrong end.
Mr Whybrow did not even break his step as he chuckled, “Show off! He’ll come a cropper doing that. It’s a heavier-than-air flying machine, Miss Bluebird. A lot more complicated than an airship, but one day they’ll all be made that way.”
His sentence trailed away, hinting at some experience of his own which he did not care to impart at that moment. But Paris had already distracted me with its next, even grander, revelation. Soaring arches of iron girders, stretching skywards to converge at a point almost too far to see.
“The Eiffel Tower,” explained my guide. “Built for the exposition of 1889. And to answer the obvious question – about a thousand feet, the exact figure escapes me.”
“Will we be going up it, sir?” I asked, somewhat apprehensive at the prospect of a thousand feet of stairs.
Nod from Mr Whybrow. “Unless you can think of a good reason not to. Don’t worry, they do have lifts. The stairs are usually for emergencies only.”
The lift seemed to take forever as it rose. Through the gratings, I saw Paris getting smaller and smaller; the effect was hypnotic and I gave a little jump when the lift stopped with a slight jerk.
Mr Whybrow led me out onto a balcony. I’d spent much of my time in Caledon learning not to be afraid of heights, and with some success. Here, I felt that I’d have to start all over again.
Standing as we were almost in the clouds, I felt my sense of balance waver. Suddenly, all the stresses of the day caught up with me at once. They combined to form a relentless demon that seized upon my momentary instability, starting with my stomach. Mr Whybrow must have noticed me swaying slightly. Unfortunately, he misinterpreted my dizziness. “Just grab hold of the railing - ”
He was too late. My reflexes were already half way there. I launched myself at the railings and lost everything inside me including, I suspected, half my internal organs. Mr Whybrow decently stood back and said nothing, but waited for me to finish.
“Are you all right now?” Mr Whybrow asked.
“Yes, thank you, sir,” I gasped, blinking tears from my eyes.
“Hold onto the railing and look to the horizon, not straight down,” came his patient, commanding voice. “This is what thousands come to see.”
I followed his advice and savoured the clean air, a thousand feet up. I could only imagine the nerve of the men who had built this thing, bolting all the girders together so far from the ground. I picked out the Moulin Rouge, and that vast Notre Dame might have been a country church, half-swallowed up in the distant haze. I was acclimatising to the dizzying altitude, but there remained that slight unsteadiness in my ankles. I’d heard Paris spoken of as the city of romance; at the present moment I could only think of it as the city of vertigo.
Mr Whybrow was taking it all in, too; he must have seen it before, but the faraway look in his eyes told me that it was an experience he’d never tire of. Apart from my own unscheduled contribution, of course. Sorry, Paris.
I became aware that he was studying me discreetly. “Are you quite recovered?” he asked, without a dram of condemnation.
“Yes, thank you, sir. It’s strange, I feel reborn - the air seems to stimulate the appetite.”
He saw my hint for what it was. An excuse to get back to the ground again. “Rule number one in Paris; never hurry anything. Except a dish from kitchen to table. Don’t worry, I’m sure we can satisfy you beyond even your imagination.”
But at least he acquiesced, and held the lift door open for me.
On terra firma once more, I espied a photographer plying his trade and I had to have some tangible souvenir of the day. Mr Whybrow noticed the slight halting in my step, and was ready for my pleading eyes before I could get a word out.
“Why not?” he said, simply.
When Mr Whybrow paid the photographer, he lingered chatting for a moment. When he returned to me, he explained, “I was just giving him the address to send it to. Are you all right, Miss Bluebird?”
It took his query to point out to me something that I should have seen for myself. I was shifting about from one foot to another, and my back was beginning to ache. The coffee was keeping my mind alert, but my body was about to jack it in. “It’s all right, thank you, sir. I hadn’t expected to be doing so much walking, that’s all.”
He pointed out a little park, where we shared a bench. He said nothing, letting me relax and take the weight off my feet. I began to feel sorry for him, showing me around one of the world’s great cultural capitals with a big plaster on his head – for which I was responsible. In fact, I’d been wanting to say something since we left Caledon, and now seemed to be the time. I couldn’t quite manage to look him in the eye as I apologised for having decked him.
Mr Whybrow waved a hand as though it did not matter. “It’s all right; I could see straight away that you needed a plaster of your own. Something had just happened, hadn’t it?”
His confidence, the stern cast to his gaze, told me he knew who was involved. There was no point in holding back. Calmly and concisely, I told him about Jasper, although I stared ahead with my eyes a-blur. Anything else would have brought forth the tears that had been waiting for their moment, and to allow them to tarnish this day would have been sacrilegious.
Mr Whybrow heard me out impassively. “And do you mind if I ask how far he’d taken things with you?”
“Nowhere at all, sir. I’m simply not interested, and if I were, it wouldn’t be with a lout who smells like a den of weasels. He’d asked me to a dance at which the star turn was a spoon player, and that was it,” I wound up, sounding emotionally spent, although I noticed Mr Whybrow cringe at the mention of the spoon player. I added, “If he’d avoided the personal interest, I suppose we could have got on on a vaguely friendly basis – well, until I caught him and wotsername having a threepenny upright – “ I bit my tongue at my lapse into workhouse-ese. “He had absolutely no attraction for me, believe me, sir.”
Mr Whybrow nodded sternly, to advise me that he was already convinced and my protest was unnecessary. I continued in a more subdued tone. “It was the way he took my affection for granted without even troubling to find out if it was there in the first place. And since he’d wasted no time in ducking behind the chapel with that – creature, we can add ‘treating me as if I’m stupid’ to my reasons for hating him. Nobody likes to be treated like that.”
Mr Whybrow turned it all over for a moment. I don’t think he needed convincing of anything. Finally, he said, “You don’t have to justify yourself, Miss Bluebird. I’d always put him down as good-hearted but not a gentleman. Now I see that I was only half right. Well, I said I wouldn’t interfere unless it became unavoidable, but if you need me - you may hold me to that.”
Looking at the ground, I mumbled, “Thank you, sir.”
He turned his head to me, to transfix me sharply. “And I’m grateful to you for confirming what I’d suspected about Little Miss Pirate. A schemer who wanted to use me to improve her lot.” He gave a dry snort. “I saw through her from the start, but an ounce of confirmation is worth a ton of deduction. Thank you, Miss Bluebird. I think, with that in mind, that you might appreciate the amount of trouble you’ve saved me. And now, if you’ve got your breath back, I think it’s time to turn our attention to recovering your strength. Do you think you could make it to a restaurant that’s in sight of the tower?”
“I could make it to Timbuctoo if there’s something filling at the end of the journey, sir.”
“It isn’t that far,” he laughed. “Come on.”
He led me to the “The Dansant,” up a flight of stairs to a wide terrace over which a civilised, delicate little orchestra cast its cheer from inside the building. I immediately appreciated why the French were so fond of eating outside; the fresh air kept one’s appetite open for more. He held my chair for me, and when he’d seated himself, remarked, “I suppose it goes without saying that you’re starving?”
“I could eat a cow,” I replied, not caring at my vernacular in such a well-groomed establishment. I was not joking. If they brought in the whole animal impaled on a spit, I’d leave nothing but bones.
As before, the waiter appeared like a ghost materialising, but Mr Whybrow was ready with his steam-driven French. “S’il vous plait, nous prenons le vichyssoise – chaud pour nous deux, suivi par le Chateaubriand. Et une bouteille du Chateau Lafite quatre-vingt douze.”
The waiter took it all down with a nod of his head, signifying his approval at Sir’s choice, although he’d probably have reacted identically had Mr Whybrow ordered burned mailbags. Oh, Lord – that was a point. I didn’t even know what he’d ordered; he was probably condemning me to some repulsive foreign stuff that wasn’t even properly dead. Yes, that was his oblique revenge for the belt over the head I’d given him.
But there was worse to come. Mr Whybrow shuffled his chair back and extended a hand to me. “Would you care to dance while we wait?”
My jaw landed in my lap with a painful thud. “But – you hate dancing, sir.”
“So do you, albeit for different reasons. But you’ve earned my trust where others have not, and it’s still worth knowing how to do. And it’s not as if anyone here knows us.”
Uncle Arthur’s advice rang in my head with a sonorous soothing echo. Trust him. Uneasily, I stood and took his hand.
“It so happens that they’re playing a waltz,” he mentioned. “It’s simple enough and popular anywhere; get that right and people will overlook any number of slipups in other steps.”
Knowing as I did his aversion to dancing, I appreciated the effort he’d made in asking me. It would have been churlish to refuse. I forced a smile and asked him to please lead the way, sir.
That he had been experienced on the dance floor at some time was immediately obvious, from the firm but gentle lead his hand gave me, insinuated around my waist. He gave me a mischievous wink as if to say, “There – nothing to it really, is there?” As we settled into the orchestra’s steady three-four swirl, the setting sun bathed us in a gorgeous snuggly russet-gold opiate. Relaxing, I felt bound to offer some attempt at conversation. Not least to mask my lingering disquietude at my unaccustomed situation.
“I’m so glad you brought me here, sir; it’s taught me a lot. I’m more used to people speaking of Paris as a den of iniquity.”
Mr Whybrow chuckled. “Paris is a popular ‘safe’ city amongst revolutionaries who’ve made their own countries too hot to hold them. But as far as morality’s concerned, the only difference between Paris and London is the language. People are pretty much the same, the world over.”
“If you mean that they condemn what isn’t in sympathy with their own narrow minds, I agree, sir. I’m more used to people speaking of Paris like some Biblical underworld, but I’ve also heard it called the City of Romance. And I can see why. This is the first time anyone’s treated me as a woman.”
“Then it’s about time someone did,” Mr Whybrow light-heartedly threw back.
There was no escaping the serious undertone to his remark, which reinforced the slight unease that I’d been feeling since I accepted his invitation to dance. I’d never been intimate with a man, and was not sure how far to go in public. He must have seen my uncertainty as he crooked an eyebrow, leaving me to explain what was bothering me.
Haltingly, I told him, “I know you’d never go beyond the bounds of propriety, and you’ll know what these people will think. But I don’t, so please excuse me if I’m a little bewildered by the experience.” What a mess! But it was the best I could manage with all the conflicting counterpulls of excitement, nerves, and a smidgin of residual flight urge.
Mr Whybrow chuckled back. You silly girl. “You’re right; I’d never hazard your reputation. But the French are very good at minding their own business. Their word “femme” means a wife, or any woman. And we know that you’re my shopgirl – “ he stumbled, looking for a way to put what followed. “ – and a lot more. But the French don’t, and if they did, they simply wouldn’t care.”
I began to feel guilty. Through my own stumbling lack of confidence, I’d overtaxed his own and he was out of his depth. Drawing a deep breath, I told him, “If I were your lady and not just a very lucky shopgirl, I couldn’t wish to be treated better. If they did think I was your lady, I’d be flattered.”
I caught myself. In trying to undo my mess, I’d gone too far.
Mr Whybrow merely looked away, a little embarrassed.”Thank you, Valerie.”
I bit my lip. Not only at his forgiveness for my fox-paw; it was the first time he had addressed me by my first name.
He wrested back my attention with a tweak of his finger on my waist. “Don’t ever doubt yourself, as a woman, or in any capacity. Right now, there’s no prouder man on earth. If I was interested in acquiring a companion, I’d want her to look and generally be like you. And I think our waiter’s coming.”
What impeccable timing that waiter had. As Mr Whybrow led the way back to our table, he was unable to see the flush glowing in my cheeks. It was I who was the proud one.
At first I thought that the dainty on the plate before me was a joke to which everyone else but myself was party. A sausage roll? Carefully following Mr Whybrow’s lead, I selected the outermost of the knives and forks and sliced into something I’d been about to pick up with my fingers. My palate exploded with the first bite. Some sort of shellfish, with a savoury herbal tang, in pastry that didn’t so much melt in my mouth as dissolve.
Eating gave me the excuse not to talk; I’d already dug myself into a deeper hole by trying to clear up the one I’d initially dug. But I was careful to give Mr Whybrow a warm smile of appreciation. And from the wink he returned, that was all the thanks he wanted.
The soup was a light savoury vegetable one; I didn’t recognise what was in it but it left me more hungry. Then the waiter put between us a sizzling cottage loaf which had the texture and scent of roast beef. I giggled. “I thought for a moment we were going to get one each.”
Mr Whybrow smirked. “You did say you could eat a cow. It would appear that the only bits missing from this are the horns. It’s lucky you didn’t say you could eat a horse. Here, they’d have given you one.” I almost choked, but Mr Whybrow quickly added, “Don’t worry. This is the best beef you’ll ever see.”
It certainly was. I knew, through having snaffled the Governor’s leftovers, that even workhouse beef was not always like old boiled boots, but this spread sublimeness as it filtered throughout my head. Those clever French had served it with a yellowy sauce which at first looked out of place, but it worked with the open air to augment my appetite, and I had to be careful not to shovel it all in like an army of dockers. There was no hurry, after all. I realised, all the same, that ladies did not fork down one steak after another, but Mr Whybrow knew my appetite and indulged me with a smile of satisfaction.
We spoke little while eating; we could read all that was necessary in each others’ faces. Most of London would never have had such a fabulous adventure; most of them didn’t even know where Paris was. Yet here I sat, being shown off in one of the civilised world’s great centres, and all he wanted in return was a smile. Well, not quite. He had the cachet of a shopgirl who’d been to Paris, and he’d deflected at least some of Miss Creeggan’s wrath.
Mr Whybrow had wisely ordered a water ice to finish with. When I pushed my dish away, clean and empty, I told him, “Thank you, sir. You’ve done to my stomach what your art gallery did to my eyes.”
He smiled back as if to say, “Quite all right – doesn’t matter.” Then he called the waiter for l’addition. I pretended not to notice as he was slipped a piece of paper, and I surmised that its sole content was, “an arm and a leg.” But Mr Whybrow merely handed over a few brightly-coloured banknotes with startlingly big numbers in the corners, and helped me to stand.
“The custom is to finish off with coffee and liqueurs. I suggest we do that in Caledon; the trains and ferries run all night, but you won’t. And neither will I!”
On the way back, he left me to digest the outing in my mind, while my stomach digested the most spectacular dinner I’d ever had.
The train to the coast rocked me, as though I were a dish being prepared by a master chef who knew exactly how to do things. Out of the corner of my eye, the final sunbeams of the day took their bow, graciously drawing down the curtain on what had been a magnificent experience. The last thing I remembered was that I’d have to put off getting my airship silk for another day, and it didn’t matter. I’d left Caledon as a fortunate shopgirl, and would be returning as a lady equal to any other.
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