Sugar Sugar

  We not only wandered through Space,

  but also through Time. We moved towards

  the East but we also travelled into the

  Middle Ages...

  Herman Hesse

  The Journey to the East

  Other books by Carole WILKINSON

  The Dragonkeeper Series

  Dragon Dawn

  Dragonkeeper

  Garden of the Purple Dragon

  Dragon Moon

  The Dragon Companion: An Encyclopedia

  The Ramose Series

  Ramose: Prince in Exile

  Ramose and the Tomb Robbers

  Ramose: Sting of the Scorpion

  Ramose: Wrath of Ra

  Valley of the Tombs (books 1 & 2 of the Ramose Series)

  The Drum Series

  Black Snake: The Daring of Ned Kelly

  Alexander the Great: Reckless Conqueror

  The Games: The Extraordinary History of the Modern Olympics

  The Beat Series

  Hatshepsut: The Lost Pharaoh of Egypt

  The True Tales Series

  Ned Kelly’s Jerilderie Letter

  Picture Book

  The Night We Made the Flag: A Eureka Story

  Visit Carole at

  www.carolewilkinson.com.au

  For John,

  my fellow traveller

  One

  Moonlight

  I was dreaming of the sea when the moonlight woke me. It crept up the length of the bed to shine in my eyes.

  The moon is full. That’s how I measure the passage of time these days. I couldn’t tell you what the date is. I think it’s Sunday and it might be September by now.

  The moonlight makes everything look beautiful, even the crumpled sheet and the clothes spread over the floor. I can smell donkey dung and baking bread. It’s quiet, apart from the soft sound of someone breathing.

  I’ve been on quite a trip, though I don’t have much to show for it—a book of Rolling Stones’ lyrics, some coins with Arabic writing on them, a headscarf with crocheted fans around the edge. I’ve learned how to say “bread” and “water” in eight different languages and I can swear in Dutch.

  But this journey isn’t over yet. It will continue tomorrow, and many tomorrows will be spent on the road. I don’t know how long it will last.

  It seems like years since I left London, but actually it’s only been about five weeks.

  Two

  Closed Doors

  I was waiting for France to appear on the horizon. The hovercraft pitched and I had to hang onto the rail to stay on my feet. The other passengers were down below, looking green or throwing up, but I don’t get seasick. It started to rain, so I put up my umbrella. My hair was getting tangled and the salt spray was making my mascara run. A gust of wind turned my umbrella inside out and wrenched it out of my hands. It blew out over the sea and disappeared beneath the heaving waves of the English Channel, but I didn’t care, I was going to Paris.

  I’d thought a lot about what to wear on my trip to Paris and decided on my calf-length grey jersey skirt with thigh-high slits up both sides; a shirt with a pattern of green and red stars; open-toed, platform-soled shoes. It was July, summer in the northern hemisphere, but I was also wearing a long cardigan and a crocheted hat pulled down over my ears. I didn’t want to get my outfit wet, so I retreated to a spot where there was a bit more shelter and found two girls huddled behind a lifeboat.

  “We’re goin’ to France!” one of them said. She was more excited than I was, even though she was drenched to the skin.

  “Me too,” I said.

  They held out their hands and introduced themselves, in that formal way Americans do. Their names were Veronica and Vanessa and they came from Virginia.

  “I’m Jackie,” I said.

  “We were raised in a real small town in the Appalachian mountains. We didn’t know where to go in Europe,” Vanessa explained, “so we decided to visit only places that begin with V. Neat, huh?”

  You could tell they were country girls by the way they dressed. Veronica was wearing floral slacks with a matching bandana and a pink twin-set. Vanessa’s outfit was a bit better—a navy-blue miniskirt and a T-shirt with a cartoon elephant on it, but she was also wearing white boots! Who would wear white boots in 1972? They went out of fashion at least five years ago. I was glad to have someone to talk to though.

  They thought I was English. As if English and Australian accents sound the same!

  In England, Veronica and Vanessa had been to Verulamium and a village called Venn Ottery. They’d stayed in Vauxhall in London, walked along Victoria Embankment and visited the Victoria and Albert Museum.

  “But Paris doesn’t start with a V,” I said.

  “We’re headin’ to Versailles first,” Vanessa said. “After that we’re goin’ to Vesuvius, Venice and Vienna.”

  “I’m just going to Paris,” I said.

  I could have told them why I was going to Paris, but I didn’t. I’d hardly told anybody about my plan (just Terry and Colleen, and Millie, and the girls I worked with—though I hadn’t meant to tell them). I wanted to keep it to myself.

  The American girls wanted to tell me everything.

  “We bought a ve-hicle to tour in.”

  “It’s not just any automobile,” Veronica cut in before Vanessa had a chance to finish. “We bought ourselves a London cab! You know, one of those big ol’ black ones.”

  “We named her Gertrude,” Vanessa said. “Isn’t that the cutest name? It’s so British.”

  “She’s fitted out with a bed an’ all,” Veronica continued. “She was kind of expensive, but I’m sure she’ll be worth every cent.”

  The girls wanted to be the first to drive off the hovercraft, so they ran down below when Calais came into sight.

  I stepped off the gangplank onto French soil (or concrete at least). It felt good. The other passengers looked a bit queasy, but I was hungry. First I had to find a bank so I could get some French francs. I’d brought twenty-five pounds with me, which is a lot of money—two week’s wages—but I wanted to buy some shoes in Paris and maybe a bag.

  Since I was in France, I wanted to eat something French, like a croissant, but when I found a cafe, there was a queue. Now that they were on dry land again, the other passengers had suddenly found their appetites. By the time I’d done my hair, re-applied my makeup and got back to where the buses left from, I’d missed my connecting bus to Paris. I went to the ticket office and asked if I could exchange my ticket for the next bus—or at least I tried to. The woman who served me had a pained expression, as if my French was giving her a headache. I didn’t think it was that bad; I’d even been to evening classes to brush up on my grammar. Anyway, according to the ticket woman it was pas possible. That meant buying a new ticket. I tried to argue with her, but she said it was lunchtime and shut her window.

  I heard the crunching of gears and a London taxi pulled up next to me. The girls had changed into dry clothes and filled up the taxi’s fuel tank before they set off. Veronica was behind the huge steering wheel. She needed two cushions to see over the dashboard and looked tiny, like a child pretending to drive her parents’ car.

  “Would you take our picture with Gertrude?” Vanessa asked.

  They got out, draped themselves on the taxi’s bonnet and made peace signs. Veronica polished the silver A for Austin with her sleeve. “Don’t you just love this cute hood ornament?”

  When they found out I’d missed my bus, they offered me a lift to Paris, which sounded like much more fun than waiting two hours for the next bus. I climbed into the back of the taxi where the seats had been taken out to make room for a mattress covered with a patchwork quilt. Pink and white gingham curtains adorned all the back windows, tied with ribbon
.

  “Isn’t she divine?” Vanessa said. “I’m gonna travel in Gertrude for the rest of my life!”

  It was a lovely old car that smelt of leather. It had leather door panels, two fold-down seats in the back, a canvas ceiling and leather straps that stopped the doors from opening too wide.

  There was a glass barrier separating the front from the back and Vanessa slid it open so that we could talk. London taxis don’t have a front passenger seat, just space for luggage. That’s where Vanessa was, perched on a wooden box with a cushion on top. The box was also where they kept their food supplies. She took off the lid and showed me their cooking utensils and camping stove.

  The taxi lurched forward, coughing and complaining. I tried not to cringe as Veronica crunched through the gears. The mattress was so low that I couldn’t see out of the windows. It didn’t matter. I wasn’t in France to admire the countryside. I leaned back on a pile of faded orange cushions. Gertrude reminded me of a playhouse, like the sort I made when I was a kid.

  “I can’t get used to the steering wheel bein’ on the wrong side,” Veronica said, “but I’m thankful that at least they drive on the right side of the road over here in Europe.”

  I was planning on being away for four nights, so I just had an overnight case—the one I’d bought when I was fifteen, the day after Colleen and I first decided to save up for a trip to London. It’s vinyl and has a pattern of huge pink and red poppies on an aqua background. It’s not fashionable now, but the only other suitcase I had was my big one. I unzipped the front pocket and pulled out a folder that I’d bought at with a length of maroon ribbon.

  “Are you on vacation?” Vanessa asked.

  “No. I’m on a mission,” I said. “Ever heard of André Courrèges?”

  “Can’t say I have.”

  “He’s a famous French fashion designer.”

  I undid the ribbon and opened up my folder.

  “This is my life’s work,” I said. “My fashion design folio. I’m going to Paris to show it to André Courrèges.”

  I slid out one of my design sketches and held it up for them to see. It was my Marsupial Collection, which consisted of long-sleeved mini dresses made of felt in different shades of brown. They each had a wide pocket across the middle and fur trim around the neck and cuffs. They were worn with thick brown tights, furry boots and mittens.

  “It’s ... cute,” Vanessa said.

  I showed them my Galah Coat, which was edged with feathers and looked plain grey until you lifted your arms and the sleeves opened out like a cape to reveal bright pink underneath.

  “And this is my Peek-a-boo Dress.” That was one of my favourites. “It’s designed for girls who like to wear long dresses, but still like to show their legs. It’s made from material with different-sized spots all over it, and the biggest spots are cut out so that you can see through.” Those were my newest designs. The girls were the first people I’d showed them to.

  “It’s nice to have a hobby,” Veronica said.

  Veronica concentrated on her driving like she was sitting an exam, and Vanessa studied the map so that she could navigate the way through Lille. I flicked through the rest of my folder.

  The American girls didn’t understand. Fashion wasn’t my hobby—it was my life. I’ve loved fashion for as long as I can remember. When I was only six I made my first skirt. I didn’t use a pattern, I could just visualise how the pieces fitted together. I wore my first miniskirt when I was eleven and then Mum and Dad bought me a second-hand sewing machine for my thirteenth birthday. From then on, I made all my own clothes, copying them from fashion magazines.

  I never thought about who actually created fashions until I read an article in Rave magazine about the inventor of the miniskirt. Most people think that the English fashion designer Mary Quant came up with the idea, but she didn’t. It was André.

  The day after I read that article, I was in a French class at school and we were having a lesson about sewing. I learned the French for scissors ( des ciseaux), interfacing ( le parement) and zipper ( la fermeteur à glissière). I had a brainwave, what my best friend Colleen calls a mind zap. I suddenly knew what I wanted to do with my life. I was going to be a fashion designer, just like André Courrèges!

  During PE, when we were supposed to be playing netball, I told Colleen.

  “You’ve always wanted to be a model,” I said. “We could go to London together and become famous! You can model the clothes I design! We can escape from Adelaide.”

  Then a netball hit me in the nose. There was quite a lot of blood and Colleen had to take me to sickbay. The netball hadn’t knocked the idea out of my head, but Colleen wasn’t convinced that two girls from Adelaide could be famous in London.

  “If Rolf Harris and the Seekers can make it big in England,” I said, balancing ice cubes wrapped in a hankie on my nose, “why can’t we?”

  We made a pact—we’d be on a boat in a year and a half.

  I spent the rest of the year drawing designs in the margins of my maths and science textbooks. I got an after-school job so that I could start saving straight away. In my bedroom, I took down the posters of Paul McCartney, the Who and the Faces, and put up pictures of André and his fashions instead. As soon as I’d finished third year, I left school and started work at Alice’s In-gear, which was Adelaide’s trendiest fashion shop. On the weekends I made clothes and sold them to workmates and friends who were still at school.

  In just over a year I saved a thousand dollars. Colleen isn’t much good at saving and she didn’t have even close to enough money, but somehow she always gets her way. Her grandma gave her three hundred dollars for her twenty-first—even though she’d only just turned eighteen.

  I didn’t realise that Paris was such a long way from Calais. I’d thought it would be near the coast like Australian capital cities, are but it took hours to get there. Veronica and Vanessa stopped to buy vegetables in a pretty town with a market by a river. When they were ready to leave, Gertrude wouldn’t start. Vanessa burst into tears.

  “We’ll never get to Versailles!”

  “Let me have a look,” I said.

  It took me a while to figure out how to open the bonnet—an operation that involved two levers and three hands. I propped it up and bashed the battery terminals with the heel of one of my shoes. That got her going again. The girls were so relieved they both hugged me, but thanked God.

  I went through a brief tomboy phase when I was nine and that’s when I got interested in cars. Dad was thrilled. He’s a mechanic and, having two daughters at the time, thought he’d never have a kid to share his interest. Dad taught me how to use a shifting spanner, clean the spark plugs and change the oil. Thanks to him, I can name any Holden model just by looking at the taillights. He bought an old MG TC sports car and I helped him do it up. He had to tow it home because the engine was in bits on the back seat. Mum thought he’d gone crazy. I was fascinated by the way he gradually transformed a pile of metal on the garage floor into an engine that could drive a car.

  The tomboy phase only lasted a year. Dad was disappointed for a while, but then my brother was born. I still like cars, though these days I’m more interested in the design than what’s under the bonnet.

  After I’d fixed the taxi, I suggested that I take over the navigating, because, to be honest, Vanessa was hopeless. I made myself comfortable on the box in the front and Veronica showed me where the Bois de Boulogne was on a map of Paris.

  “That’s where we’re stayin’ when we get to Paris,” she said, “at the campground.”

  Then she pointed to the Place d’Etoile (that’s where the Arc de Triomphe is).

  “Just don’t you take me anywhere near that Arch de Triumph, Jackie,” she said.

  “She had a bad experience on the roundabout around Marble Arch in London,” Vanessa explained. “There were six roads leading off it.”

  “I kept goin’ round and round. Well, I must’ve swung round seven times before I could get off that the
re roundabout. And then I was headin’ in the wrong direction.”

  I counted twelve roads leading off the Place d’Etoile.

  I thought I did a pretty good job of getting them to Paris. I’d plotted out a route to guide them to the camping ground in a big loop to the west of the city, which avoided the central area completely. Okay, we did miss one small turn when we reached the outskirts, and then, because of a one-way street, we did end up going east instead of west. I told Veronica to turn right, then left, to try and get us back on track, but before I knew it the Arc de Triomphe was straight ahead.

  “Vanessa, I think you oughta take back the map,” Veronica said.

  Her voice was shaky.

  The next thing I knew I was standing with my suitcase on the Champs Elysées, and the London taxi was disappearing into the distance. I stood there listening to the traffic noise. The road was made of cobblestones that made all the cars sound like they had flat tyres.

  I’d managed to leave my guidebook with the map of Paris in it on the table at home. Luckily I’d memorised where André’s boutique was. All I had to do was cross the Champs Elysées, walk one block and turn left. Easier said than done. I looked left without thinking that the cars were all driving on the wrong side of the road, and I was nearly run over by a red Renault. Everyone was beeping and yelling abuse—in French, of course. I stood there on the road for a few moments, stunned, before I jumped back on the footpath. The Champs Elysées looked about half a mile wide. There must have been at least ten lanes full of cars and I couldn’t see a pedestrian crossing anywhere. I thought I’d never get across in one piece, so I decided to catch the Metro one stop to get to the other side.