Шоколад / Chocolat

I put on the radio and sang to myself as I worked, carefully placing the chocolates into pyramids. The magic mountain opens to reveal a bewildering, half-glimpsed, array of riches: multicoloured piles of sugar crystals, glace fruits and sweets which glitter like gems. Behind this, and shielded from the light by the concealed shelving, lie the saleable wares. I will have to begin work on the Easter goods almost straight away, anticipating extra custom. It is a good thing there is storage space in the cool basement of the house.

I must order gift boxes, ribbons, Cellophane paper and trimmings.

I was so absorbed that I barely heard Armande as she came in through the half-open door.

“Well, hello,” she said in her brusque manner. “I came for another one of your chocolate specials, but I can see you’re busy.”

I manoeuvred carefully out of the window.

“No, of course not,” I told her. “I was expecting you. Besides, I’ve nearly finished, and my back is killing me.”

“Well, if it’s no trouble…”

Her manner was different today.

There was a kind of crispness in her voice, a studied casualness which masked a high level of tension. She was wearing a black straw hat trimmed with ribbon and a coat – also black – which looked new.

“You’re very chic today,” I observed.

She gave a sharp crack of laughter.

“No-one’s said that to me for a while, I’ll tell you,” she said, poking a finger at one of the stools. “Could I climb up there without breaking a leg, d’you think?”

“I’ll get you a chair from the kitchen,” I suggested, but the old lady stopped me with an imperious gesture.

“Rubbish!” She eyed the stool. “I used to be quite a climber in my youth.” She drew up her long skirts, revealing stout boots and lumpy grey stockings. “Trees, mostly. I used to climb up them and throw twigs onto the heads of passersby. Hah!”

A grunt of satisfaction as she swung herself onto the stool, grabbing hold of the counter-top for support. I caught a sudden, alarming swirl of scarlet from under her black skirt.

Armande perched on the stool, looking absurdly pleased with herself. Carefully she smoothed her skirts back over the shimmer of scarlet petticoat.

“Red silk undies,” she grinned, seeing my look. “You probably think I’m an old fool but I like them. I’ve been in mourning for so many years – seems every time I can decently wear colours someone else drops dead – that I’ve pretty much given up wearing anything but black.