She always stressed to me that sophisticated palates erred toward savory flavors,
that cheap, sugary treats were the ruin of the poor (and their teeth). Mummy always had very sharp, very white teeth.
The only acceptable sweet treats, she said, were proper Belgian truffles (Neuhaus, nom de dieu; only tourists bought those nasty chocolate seashells)
or plump Medjool dates from the souks of Tunis, both of which were rather difficult to source in our local Spar.
There was a time, shortly before... the incident... when she shopped only at Fortnum’s,
and I recall that in that same period she was in regular correspondence with Fauchon over perceived imperfections in their confiture de cerises.
I remember the pretty red stamps on the letters from Paris: Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité.
Not exactly a credo of Mummy’s. I folded my pillow in half to support me as I sat up.
Sleep still felt far away, and I was in need of soothing.
I reached down into the gap between the mattress and the wall and sought my old faithful,
its edges rounded and softened with years of handling. Jane Eyre.
I could open up the novel at any page and immediately know where I was in the story,
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