‘How did I get in?’ asks Laurent, thetabacowner from my earlier encounter with the bread-vending machine. ‘How didyouget in? What are you doing here?’
‘I came in through the front door! With the key!’ I say. ‘You?”
‘Through the cellar door. It’s never locked.’
I make a mental note to remedy that situation. ‘Well, if you could shut it on your way out …’ I say boldly.
He rubs his head again, ruffling his hair, where the trapdoor clearly hit him fair and square. ‘How come you have a key?’
‘Because I’ve bought this place.’ I walk over to the kitchen counter, put my hand into my bag and pull out the key. ‘I own it.’
For a moment he doesn’t say anything. He stops rubbing his head and glances around as if the bang has made him see things strangely.
‘Look, if you’ve come for the euro you lent me, for the bread …’
He shakes his head. ‘No, I am not here for the euro. I’m here to—’ He stops mid-sentence, then says, ‘You bought the place? You’ve boughtle moulin,’ he repeats, as if trying to comprehend it.
‘Yes. As of today, this place is mine.’
For a moment he says nothing, then, ‘Merde.’
I let my hand, still holding the phone, drop to my side. ‘I was telling the baker – Claude, is it? I’m going to make it into a—’
Before I have a chance to tell him about my new business and plans for the place, he reaches for the rope handle on the trapdoor, pulls it towards him, and disappears down the steps. The trapdoor slams, making me jump again, and I listen to the sound of heavy boots on wooden steps and a door banging in the cellar.
‘Au revoir!’ I call crossly after him.
Everything goes silent, apart from the birdsong outside.
I look at the trapdoor to the cellar, then at a dark wooden sideboard in the kitchen area, clearly for crockery. I grab one end and pull. It barely shifts. I pull harder and it moves. I go to the other side and push, so it’s right on top of the trapdoor, to make sure there are no more visitors, unless they’re invitedand come through the front door. I certainly won’t be inviting Laurent, that’s for sure.
I straighten. I’m going to have to get used to dirty hands, I think, and dust them off. I open the sideboard I’ve just pulled over the trapdoor and find a small glass inside. In the kitchen, in the sparsely furnished cupboards, I find a wooden board and a sharp knife. It’s all I need. My spirits pick up. I grab my basket and go out to the front lawn with my bread, cheese, tomatoes and the bottle of fizz. I’m not going to let Laurent spoil this moment. Turning up here and letting himself in, then taking off like that. Clearly a troublemaker. I’ll just have to avoid him.
I head for a fallen tree trunk beside the lake and sit on it. I hold my face up to the sunshine. But my thoughts return to thetabacowner. I must return that euro to him. I don’t want to owe him anything. I certainly don’t want him turning up unannounced through the mill floor again. But I can’t help wondering what he was doing here. He didn’t expect me to be at the mill. And why was he so quick to leave when I said I’d bought the place?
Chapter 7
I’m sitting outside the mayor’s office the following morning after my first night sleeping in the mill. Although the new mattress was fine and the delivery men did a great job of putting it up on the mezzanine for me, it wasn’t the best night’s sleep I’ve had. I kept thinking someone was going to appear from the cellar, even though there was no way the trapdoor could open with the sideboard on top of it. But that didn’t stop me worrying as I tried to get to sleep. I must have drifted off eventually, as I woke up to a dawn chorus at full volume and sunshine pouring in through the window where the shutters wouldn’t close, reassuring me.
And here I am, dressed to blend in as best I can, with smart trousers, a blue-and-cream-striped top and a scarf I bought at one of the weekly markets, making me feel French already, if a tiny bit self-conscious. I’m ready to introduce myself to the mayor. I know the form. I’ve read enough online group chats over the past eight weeks to know how this is done. You must tell them who you are and your plans for staying in the town as soon as you arrive, and take a gift. The gift is very important – and is usually whisky.
From inside the office I can hear raised voices and I look to the woman behind the desk, who glances at me while clearly pretending to type: she is also listening intently and, by the look of it, wondering if I am too.
I sit, clutching the bottle of whisky. Mynotairesuggested the brand. In my bag I’ve made a scrapbook to show themayor, with my ideas and sketches, exactly how I imagine the old mill will look when I open for business. It’s moments like this, though, when I wish I wasn’t doing it alone. But this wouldn’t have been Pete’s idea of fun. He’d’ve hated it. He liked his routines. His Friday night at the golf club, Sundays at the garden centre, Saturday-night curry. He was happy where things were familiar. He was confident and playful but he didn’t find change easy. Adjusting to the babies was difficult for him, but once new routines had been established, he was happy. Washing bottles, making them up so there was enough to go through the night. Laying out school uniforms as the kids got older, always the night before. Bedtime routines and after-school clubs. The thought of something totally different would have had him sweating, I think affectionately. Besides, this is why I’m here: to do things I haven’t done before. And I’m not ready to run home yet. If I don’t do this, I’ll always be wondering,What if …?So I’m going to present my ideas to the mayor. What’s the worst that can happen?
I get a ping on my phone. It’s Annie wishing me luck today.I’m waiting in the mayor’s office, I tell her.I’m nervous!
You’ll be fine. You’ve faced worse thanthis!
You’reright!
I remember sitting in that chair in the hospital, the smell of cleaning fluids and the freshly laundered uniforms of the nurses.How are you feeling today?I ask, knowing it’s a stupid question, but not wanting our text exchanges to be solely about me.
Suddenly the door of the office flies open, banging against the wall. I stuff my phone into my bag and sit up straight, as if I’m preparing for a job interview. I can hear men’s voices.
‘It was too good to turn down,’ I hear, and translate from French to English in my head.
‘It was promised! For the commune! You agreed!’ It’s another voice, deep and full of frustration.
