The Girl, the Dog and the Writer in Provence (The Girl, the Dog and the Writer, Book 2)

By Katrina Nannestad

'FANS OF ... JACQUELINE HARVEY WILL LOVE THIS BOOK'
-- Kids' Book Review on The Girl, the Dog and the Writer in Rome

When Freja and Tobias arrive in Claviers, Provence, it feels like home. The hilltop village is surrounded by olive groves, lavender fields and drifts of red poppies. The market square hides a world-famous pâtisserie and an antique merry-go-round. Pippin, their precocious young neighbour, and Vivi, the beautiful chef, fill their lives with chatter and laughter and love.

For a moment, the girl, the dog and the writer are happy.

But a spate of criminal activity casts a cloud over the village. Freja is determined to solve the mystery and uncover the villain, but the closer she gets, the more impossible things seem to become ...

Award-winning Australian author Katrina Nannestad is back with the much-anticipated sequel to the bestselling novel The Girl, the Dog and the Writer in Rome.

PRAISE FOR THE GIRL, THE DOG AND THE WRITER SERIES

'sure to be treasured' -- Children's Book Council of Australia's Reading Time

'Fans of the Clementine Rose and Alice-Miranda series by Jacqueline Harvey will love this book' -- Kids' Book Review

'Children from eight up will really warm to this funny, sad, happy book, and many adults will be charmed too' -- The Book Bubble

'The mini world that author Katrina Nannestad has created is every child's dream. 8+ readers will love this book' -- Better Reading

2018 Australian Book Industry Awards -- Longlisted

2018 CBCA Book of the Year Awards -- Notable

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Nov 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9781460708132

Katrina Nannestad

Katrina Nannestad is a multi-award-winning Australian author. Her books include the CBCA-shortlisted We Are Wolves, The Girl Who Brought Mischief, The Travelling Bookshop series, The Girl, the Dog and the Writer series, the Olive of Groves series, the Red Dirt Diaries series, the Lottie Perkins series, and the historical novels Rabbit, Soldier, Angel, Thief, Waiting for the Storks and Silver Linings. Katrina grew up in country New South Wales in a neighbourhood stuffed full of happy children. Her adult years have been spent raising boys, teaching, daydreaming and pursuing her love of stories. Katrina celebrates family, friendship and belonging in her writing. She also loves creating stories that bring joy or hope to other people's lives. Katrina now lives on a hillside in central Victoria with her husband, a silly whippet called Olive and a mob of kangaroos. www.katrinanannestad.com

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

A hilltop in Provence

Tobias Appleby’s vintage green motorcycle whined and chugged its way up the hillside. Black smoke billowed from the exhaust. The sidecar wobbled and bounced as though it was about to break free and take its own special journey through the hills of Provence. The two passengers, a ten-year-old girl and an enormous Irish wolfhound, seemed not to mind. They wobbled and bounced, at one with the sidecar, as happy as two peas in a pod. The girl, Freja, smiled so that her teeth flashed and her blue eyes sparkled. The strap of her helmet fluttered up and down at the side of her chin like an over-excited moth. The dog, Finnegan, grinned and dribbled. His ears flapped about like two bits of tattered bunting caught in the breeze.

The engine backfired with a bang. Finnegan jumped so that his large hairy head cracked against Freja’s.

‘Okay, old chap?’ yelled Tobias. He looked over to Freja and, as he did, turned the handlebars in the same direction. The motorcycle veered to the right, drifting into the loose gravel at the side of the road. Sun-dried acorns and small white stones sprayed up around them. Grit filled the gaps in their teeth. Low-hanging oak branches whipped across the top of Freja’s helmet.

‘Tobby! Tobby! Tobby!’ she squealed.

‘Woof!’ barked Finnegan.

‘Whoopsy-daisy!’ Tobias chuckled and steered the motorcycle back into the middle of the road.

The engine backfired once more.

‘The old green jalopy is struggling a little with our weight up these hills!’ shouted Tobias. ‘Perhaps we shouldn’t have eaten quite so many croissants for breakfast!’

Freja yelled back, ‘I don’t think our croissants matter so much as the three kilos of pork sausages that Finnegan gobbled from the kitchen before Madame Veron noticed!’

Finnegan turned around and grinned at the mention of sausages. He dribbled on Freja’s shoulder, then licked her cheek.

The road curved sharply and continued to climb. The oak forest thinned and was replaced by a vineyard to their left. The view opened up and, ahead of them, on the next ridge, a village appeared.

Tobias chugged to the side of the road and turned off the motor. Freja’s ears continued to ring for a moment, then filled with the delicious sound of silence.

‘Claviers!’ cried Tobias. ‘Our new home!’ He flung out his hand to indicate the village and smacked the dog on the nose. Accidentally, of course, but that did not make it any less painful.

Finnegan yipped, sneezed and leapt out of the sidecar. He ran down the hill and disappeared between two rows of lush green grapevines.

‘Oh dear!’ cried Tobias. ‘I’d better catch him before he digs up a prize-winning grape . . . or eats someone’s cat.’

He jumped off the bike and galloped down the hill. ‘Hey-ho! Come back here, puppy-wuppy-woozle!’ He stumbled, tripped and vanished from sight.

Freja giggled. She climbed out of the sidecar and stretched. Pulling off her helmet, she let her golden curls fly free in the breeze.

‘Claviers,’ she whispered, gazing at the distant village.

Normally, her heart sank at the sight of towns, but this place was different. It looked rather lovely, a part of the landscape. The stone buildings hugged the hilltop, blending into one another and the rocky outcrop. Their walls glowed with light and warmth in the midday sun. A church tower was topped by an iron bell-cage which reached gently, naturally, into the bright blue sky above. Nothing intruded. Nothing jarred. It all looked like it belonged amidst the hills and the forest and the rocks.

‘Beautiful!’ she sighed.

‘Woof! Boof!’

Freja looked down the hill at Finnegan, lolloping back and forth between the grapevines. He barked and snapped, his eyes boggling with excitement. Every now and then, he stopped to sniff at a rock, growl at a dandelion or lick a leaf.

Two rows away, a grapevine shook, then spat out a long, gangly body. Tobias tumbled along the ground, doing a complete somersault before coming to a halt. Dazed, he sat on the sharp little rocks, legs splayed out in front of him. His clothes were tattered and twisted. His old-fashioned motoring cap and goggles dangled from his neck. And his hair was a nest of twigs, leaves and his own tangled curls.

An orange-and-black butterfly fluttered about Tobias’ head for a moment, then landed on one of the protruding twigs.

Freja giggled.

Tobias stood up. His green eyes darted back and forth across the vineyard. He tugged at his ears. Not a good idea, as they stuck out a little more than was normal at the best of times. Tugging could only make things worse.

‘Woof! Boof!’ The dog leapt up above the grapevines three rows over and vanished once more.

‘Aha!’ roared Tobias. ‘Found you! Wretched villain!’

Finnegan popped up again, this time one row closer.

‘Aha!’ Tobias set off down the slope at a cracking pace, knees pumping, arms flailing. Then, as abruptly as he’d started, he stopped. He crouched, hands poised for grabbing, then dived beneath a grapevine. Leaves, mutterings and howls of anguish flew into the air until, finally, Tobias reappeared, dragging the enormous hound.

‘Woof! Boof! Ooooow!’

‘Yes! Yes! I know!’ Tobias groaned. ‘You’re sick of being crammed into the sidecar, day after day. And I agree. It’s been a jolly long journey from Rome, across Italy and into France. Two whole weeks. But we’re almost there now. And when we arrive, you can run about the streets and the olive groves, chasing lizards and birds and imaginary rabbits to your heart’s desire.’

The breeze shifted and blew through a nearby oak. Leaves rustled.

Freja looked towards the village once more. ‘Beautiful,’ she sighed.

Tobias carried Finnegan up the hill, the dog’s enormous grey body and long hairy legs sticking out awkwardly all over. By the time they reached the motorcycle, Tobias’ face was red and sweaty, his hair glistening with dog slobber. Finnegan was grinning with satisfaction.

‘Ready to roll, old chap?’ Tobias wheezed.

Freja nodded and climbed back into the sidecar.

Tobias plonked Finnegan in front of her. ‘Stay!’ he commanded.

‘Boof!’ replied Finnegan. He snapped at the air just millimetres from Tobias’ bottom as he walked around the front of the motorcycle.

‘Cheeky!’ scolded Freja.

Tobias kick-started the motorcycle. Gravel spun out from behind the back wheel and they lurched onto the road.

‘To Claviers!’ shouted Tobias.

‘Look out for that telegraph pole!’ cried Freja.

‘Woof!’ barked Finnegan.

And the motorcycle backfired with a bang!

CHAPTER 2

A new start . . . again

The girl, the dog and the writer chugged into the hilltop village of Claviers at one o’clock. The streets were deserted.

They drove past a church, a village square with a shabby little circus tent, rows of shuttered houses, shady plane trees and a small shop — all without seeing a soul. Doors were closed. Curtains hung limp in their windows. Cats and dogs had vanished.

Tobias pulled up beside a pétanque court and consulted his map.

‘Tobby?’ began Freja. ‘Are you sure this is it?’

Tobias smiled and nodded.

‘But there’s nobody here,’ she said. ‘Do you think Claviers has been deserted?’

What a wonderful thought! A town without people! A whole village to themselves!

Until four months ago, Freja had spent most of her life living in the remote regions of the Arctic. Her mother was none other than world-renowned zoologist Clementine Peachtree. Freja and Clementine had spent ten months of every year living amongst wild animals — seals, wolves, musk oxen, bears, moose, hares — but rarely came into contact with humans. When they did venture into the world of people, Freja had found it confusing. People were strange, intolerant, demanding . . . terrifying.

Children, especially, frightened her. One week at a regular school, three years ago, had taught Freja much about loneliness and embarrassment, and very little about friendship. She simply did not fit in. She knew everything about the dancing routines of Norwegian bees, but nothing about the latest programs on television. She knew how to stalk through a forest, undetected by wolves, but couldn’t work out how to dress for a regular day in the playground. She knew all the dos and don’ts of snorkelling with walruses, but didn’t know the first thing about a game of chasies. She felt like a spotted seal trying to fit in amidst a colony of puffins. She grew quieter and more timid than ever. Clementine saw her misery and withdrew her at the end of the first week. The Arctic wilds were to be her classroom from then on. And they’d provided her with a marvellous education.

But four months ago, Clementine had fallen ill. Suddenly, she’d developed a need for Swiss doctors, not Arctic breezes, and their world had changed overnight. Freja was sent to live with Tobias Appleby, the absent-minded crime writer, at his cottage in Hampshire.

Within weeks, a strange turn of events had taken them to Rome. New places. New people. A whole new life. And it had worked out just fine in the end. With Tobias and Finnegan by her side, Freja had made wonderful friends. Mostly adults, but there was also a monkey, an Italian greyhound and a flock of gossiping pigeons.

Now, here they were, starting out all over again. Still without Clementine. Another place. Another country. Another gaggle of new people. ‘And, really,’ Freja muttered, ‘I have no-one to blame but myself.’

But now, as Freja gazed back along the deserted street once more, she felt a glimmer of hope.

‘Is Claviers a ghost town?’ she asked. ‘Have all the people run away to live somewhere else?’

Tobias chuckled. ‘Absolutely not, old chap! This is a vibrant little village. We have simply arrived in the middle of sieste. Behind each and every one of those doors lies a person with a tummy full of rabbit stew and almond tart, snoozing, dreaming, digesting, snoring, until it is time to return to school or work at two o’clock.’

Freja looked back down the street and frowned. ‘Snoring?’ she asked.

‘And digesting. They will all have eaten a great deal at midday,’ added Tobias. ‘The French do like a large lunch.’

‘Boof!’ said Finnegan at the mention of lunch. He licked Freja’s nose.

‘Sieste,’ sighed Freja. It wasn’t quite as satisfying as living in a ghost town, but at least there’d be an hour or two each day when she could roam about in peace and quiet.

Tobias folded the map and stuck it back inside his jacket. ‘Forward-ho!’ he cried and gave full throttle.

The motorcycle roared around the next corner and, for one exhilarating moment, the wheel of the sidecar lifted off the ground. They zoomed past the front of an ancient stone chapel, then rattled and bounced down a cobbled street. Freja closed her eyes and clenched her teeth to stop herself from biting her tongue.

Then, as suddenly as they’d started, they screeched to a halt and Tobias sang, ‘Home, sweet home!’

The girl, the dog and the writer stood side by side, staring upward.

‘Four storeys!’ cried Freja, her eyes shining. ‘Four skinny storeys! Stone walls. Faded grey shutters. Look! That one’s all wonky, its hinge rusted and ragged. And the wisteria climbs all the way to the balcony on the top floor! I do love purple flowers, Tobby!’

Freja gazed up and down the street. It was wobbly and narrow, barely wide enough for a car to pass. The cobbles were worn to a shine from centuries of traffic — feet, wagons, barrows and bikes. Tall thin houses, all joined together, lined one side of the street, a high stone wall the other. Grey-green leaves peeped above the top of the wall.

‘We’re right on the edge of town.’ Freja smiled, the sides of her eyes crinkling with joy. ‘Hugged by an olive grove. Trees winking and waving at us from across the street!’

‘You like it?’ asked Tobias. ‘It’s all ours, you know. I bought it over the phone! Our very own French home.’

Freja reached out and squeezed Tobias’ hand.

‘Thank you, Tobias. It’s lovely. Not at all scary or civilised or too perfect for a mad writer, a silly dog and a strange girl. Quite different from a real house in a proper town. And if we can just manage to keep away from all the people . . .’

But at that very moment, the sound of a turning lock ripped through her joy. Freja looked across at the front door of the adjoining house and watched it open, slowly, ominously, just a crack.

CHAPTER 3

The house and its boy

The door of the adjoining house opened, just a crack.

Freja slipped in behind Tobias and Finnegan. She cast a sideways glance at the motorcycle and sidecar. It was large and solid and less than two metres away. She could duck behind it in a jiffy, should the need arise. The urge to hide hadn’t struck for months, now. And really, at ten, Freja was far too old to be doing such a thing. But it didn’t hurt to be prepared. In case of an emergency. In case the person behind the door was large and loud and terrifying.

Freja stared, her eyes wide, her throat tight. ‘People,’ she muttered and grabbed a comforting handful of the fur on Finnegan’s back.

The crack at the front door widened and a chubby, little hand reached around the edge.

‘Boof!’ barked Finnegan.

The door flew open and a small boy with dark brown hair and even darker brown eyes jumped out onto the stone step. ‘A horse!’ He spoke in English with a breathy French accent and a full-bodied lisp. ‘I knew there was an English writer and a girl moving in next door, but I did not know there’d be a shaggy grey horse!’

Finnegan bounded forward. He towered over the boy, grinning and dribbling on his head.

‘A dribbling horse!’ The boy squealed with delight. He reached up and wrapped his arms around Finnegan’s neck.

Freja smiled, despite her fear of children. ‘He’s not a horse,’ she whispered. ‘He’s a dog — an overgrown Irish wolfhound called Finnegan.’

‘Finnegan!’ gasped the boy. ‘I love him! Bonjour, doggy! Welcome to Claviers! My name is Pippin Perrier, and I’m five and three-quarters, and I will be your best friend forever and ever and ever!’ He grabbed Finnegan by the ears, stretched up on tippy-toes and kissed him on both sides of his muzzle. ‘Mwah! Mwah!’

Finnegan sneezed and licked Pippin’s face thoroughly in return. The deal was sealed.

‘Tobias Appleby at your service!’ Tobias stepped forward, chuckling, and shook the boy’s hand. ‘And this is Freja Peachtree, my . . . my . . .’ He scratched his head and stared up into the clear blue sky. ‘My favourite person in the whole wide world!’

Pippin jumped off the step and bounced across the cobblestones. Grabbing Freja by the ears, he pulled her head forward and planted a kiss on one cheek, then the other. ‘Mwah! Mwah!’ Just as he had with Finnegan.

‘I like your hair,’ he said. ‘It pokes out all over like the bedsprings of an old mattress.’

Freja reached up and pulled at one of her wild and woolly curls. She blushed. She had never spoken to a little child before. Children her own age were scary, but this boy was funny. Like a friendly bear cub, or a playful seal pup.

Pippin smiled up at her, his eyelashes fluttering. Freja smiled back and the tightness in her throat slipped away.

‘Do you like my hair?’ asked Pippin.

‘Yes,’ said Freja. ‘It’s very tidy.’

‘Do you like my name?’ he asked. ‘Pippin is the name of a very famous French king, which almost makes me a king, doesn’t it?’

‘Of course it does,’ agreed Freja.

‘Do you like my English?’ he asked.

‘Absolutely,’ said Freja. ‘It’s very good.’

‘And abundant!’ added Tobias.

‘It is because I am very smart, and Maman and I lived in London for a year,’ Pippin explained. ‘I hated London. It was cold and wet, the food was disgusting and the streets stank like an old sock that has been caught in a drain. Maman hated London too. She worked in a theatre and they didn’t pay her. So we came home to France, very poor and very grumpy but very good at speaking like the fancy people in English plays and books and poems. Now Maman lives in Paris and works in a place called the Moulin Rouge, where she dances all night, so I live here with Grand-Mère because little boys should not be left alone at night in Paris or anywhere else for that matter and I miss Maman terribly, but she will come home for a little holiday soon, and then I will hug her and kiss her and tell her how much I love her.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ sighed Freja. She knew how bad it felt when things went wrong with mothers. Pippin, however, did not seem too concerned, despite his words. He’d just noticed that his shirt was crooked, buttoned into the wrong holes, and was fixing things up.

Tobias pulled a key out from beneath a potted geranium and dangled it in the air. ‘Time to explore our new home, old chap!’ He unlocked the door, ducked to avoid the low lintel and dived inside.

‘Our boxes have arrived from Rome!’ Tobias’ voice drifted out into the street. ‘They’re all here, safe and sound, stacked into a tower —’ There was a thump and a yelp. Tobias hopped past the window, clutching his foot in his hands.

‘Boof!’ snapped Finnegan, and he bounded inside.

Freja turned to Pippin, expecting him to deliver a breathy and long-winded farewell. Instead, he slipped his chubby, little hand into hers and escorted her inside.

‘I know this house well!’ cried Pippin. ‘Grand-Mère used to clean for Monsieur Martin. He was a chef in a fancy restaurant in Fayence.’ He dropped Freja’s hand and started pointing. ‘The bathroom is through that door and this is the busy room — for laundry and shopping baskets, bins and tools, boxes and firewood, bicycles and donkeys.’

‘Donkeys?’ Freja frowned at him. ‘Really?!’

‘No,’ confessed Pippin. ‘But it would be good, don’t you think, to have a donkey living downstairs?’

Freja nibbled her lip while she thought about it. ‘Yes,’ she decided. ‘You could run downstairs, jump on the donkey’s back and trot straight out the door.’

Finnegan disappeared through a door at the back of the room and, soon, they could hear him slurping water.

‘He likes to drink from the toilet,’ said Freja.

‘He could drink from the bidet, if he likes!’ suggested Pippin.

‘What’s a bidet?’ asked Freja.

‘It’s French,’ said Pippin proudly. ‘It looks like a toilet, but it’s for washing your derrière . . . or your squirrel.’

‘Squirrel?’ Freja wrinkled her nose.

Tobias chuckled. ‘Boxes . . . firewood . . . a donkey . . . a squirrel . . .’

‘And a duck!’ squealed Pippin, jumping up and down. ‘We could have a pretty white duck living here with the donkey and his name could be Zacharie and he could lay us some apples!’ Suddenly, he froze. His eyes grew wide. ‘Apples! I almost forgot! Grand-Mère has left you a surprise in the kitchen. Come! Come! I will show you!’ He disappeared up the stone staircase to the first floor.

Tobias shrugged. Freja giggled and they trotted up the steps.

The kitchen was plain and old-fashioned. There was an open fireplace, a sink and a stove along one side wall, a pale green dresser along the other. A large oak table stood in the middle of the room, surrounded by ten mismatched chairs.

Ten chairs, thought Freja. I don’t suppose we’ll ever need so many.

Pippin jumped out from behind the dresser, an apple tart in his hands. ‘Ta-da!’ he cried. ‘Grand-Mère baked it this morning. For you! And inside the dresser, there are some more good things to eat so you won’t be hungry on your first night here — half a dozen eggs, two baguettes, a pot of honey made by the bees down in Monsieur Delahaye’s lavender field, a bag of dried figs and a little wheel of cheese.’ He screwed up his face. ‘The cheese is very stinky. It smells like something that has been sneezed from a goat’s nostril. But it tastes delicious, like you have died and gone to heaven.’ Pippin beamed at Freja, his brown eyes warm and welcoming and full of joy.

Freja’s breath caught. For she realised that, already, she’d made a friend. And it had been as easy as pie. ‘As easy as apple tart,’ she whispered, running her hand along the edge of the oak table. There would, it seemed, be one less chair up for grabs.

‘Delicious!’ cried Tobias, accepting the tart and giving it a good sniff. ‘What a fabulous granny you have! We’ll pop by later and thank her.’

Pippin’s eyes boggled. ‘No, Tobias Happleby! Do not come over later. Grand-Mère is always in a mood most horrible after her sieste. She wakes with a sore head and aching bones. She is as cranky as a cat with no cream. As grouchy as a fiddler without his bow. As cross as a chicken that has sat too hard on her egg and cracked it.’

‘Hmmm.’ Tobias ran his hand through his hair. ‘It sounds like your granny is a kind cook but a peevish waker! Well, you must thank her for us, King Pippin.’

Pippin smiled