‘And you’re going to live in it?’ she says.
‘Yes. And open it as asalon de thé,’ I say, feeling happier talking about my plans.
‘Asalon de thé? Interesting,’ she says.
‘For local people, walkers, and people driving out to see the lake,’ I say.
‘Well,bonne chance,’ she says, and I have a feeling she thinks I’m going to need it.
I follow her towards the precarious slope at the side of themill, then to the front door, and am soon snagged in the brambles again.
‘Ouch!’
‘Oh!’ She turns back to me and points. ‘No, follow me. Always take the right-hand side up the slope and hold the tree branch here. It’s much easier.’
I follow her instructions. It is indeed a much better pathway up the side onto the green at the front of the mill, if not the most direct. ‘Merci.’
‘De rien,’ she says politely, and carries on walking around the side of the lake, picking her way past the shrubs and over the rocks towards a low, flat rock protruding from the bank beyond a clump of yellow gorse.
I look out at the lake again – I could stand and watch it for hours, but I have work to do, so I turn towards the green front door. As I let myself into the cool, dark room, I hear other cars pulling up, and women’s voices, greeting each other. The sound of their cheerfulness makes me smile. Here’s hoping they may come to thesalon de théwhen it’s up and running, rather than just using my drive for parking.
I glance out of the open door, across the lake, hoping to catch sight of the kingfishers, but they’re not around. They, too, must be getting on with their jobs in something near paradise.
I grab my cleaning tools, which I bought from Intermarché. They’ve been sitting in my car for the last few weeks, ready to tackle this job. I make for the big room upstairs, carrying my mop and bucket, broom, dustpan and brush, and throw open the windows. I can see the women at the edge of the lake. Some are being helped by the one I met. Others are sitting side by side on small stools or chairs, their lines in the water, talking intently. Others are laughing, sharing bread and cheese … Bottles of water and wine are on a camping table in the shadows of the trees, and I can’t help but feel rather envious of the camaraderiethey share as I listen to their soft laughter rippling across the water. It’s much like the close friendship I share with Annie, both knowing the rollercoaster of emotions we experienced from our diagnosis and needing to be positive even when it didn’t feel positive for us and our families.
I send Annie another photograph and tell her she’ll soon be sitting at the lakeside too, and how does she fancy trying her hand at fishing? She sends back a laughing face.
I sweep, mop, and scrub at the graffiti on the walls. I think I’m getting somewhere when I hear a small cheer from the ladies at the lakeside and go to the window to see them land a fish in a bucket and congratulate the woman holding it as if she’s found the very meaning of life. Maybe she has. She’s found a purpose, and that’s what it’s all about, I think, whether it’s landing a fish, reading a book or cleaning an old building to serve tea and cake. Finding a purpose, something that makes you happy, is what’s spurred me on recently.
I work away on the walls all afternoon until the sun goes down and I hear the women leave. I’m alone. I head downstairs and sit by the lake in the silence for a little while with a glass of wine. Eventually I go inside, closing the door, and make an omelette for my dinner. Then I head to my living quarters at the back of the building, behind the curtain, for bed.
The following morning, I take my coffee outside and sit on the fallen tree trunk, watching the mist swirl and circle around the lake, where the lily pads float. I breathe in, hoping to glimpse the kingfishers, but I don’t spot them. I know they’re around, though. They seem to encourage me that I can do this, little by little.
Today, I plan to take on the ground floor, move the rubbish stacked in the middle of the room, then wash the walls with sugar soap, dust away the cobwebs and mop the floor. Thewomen are back by the lakeside for Sunday morning and I can hear the church bells ringing from the village, over the fields.
It’s a few hours of hard work, dragging the old blankets, bicycle parts and plastic tubs that were probably fished out of the lake, out of the door, down the slope to outside the cellar door, ready to get to the nearest recycling centre. I stack the rubbish there too, against one wall. Once I’ve scrubbed the floors and walls, I can start to paint. And it should begin to come to life. Then I can do the fun part and visit thebrocantesagain to furnish the place. I can’t wait to start filling it with tables and chairs. I’ve only made one big purchase so far, and that was my mattress. It’s cosy and comfortable and I have plans to paint the room as soon as I can.
But first I want to see what else needs to happen to get the place into shape for mysalon de thé.
I put my shoulder to the dark wooden sideboard and push until the trapdoor is exposed. I lift it by the rope handle and peer down into the hole. It’s dark, dusty and full of cobwebs. I sigh. But the sooner I clean it, the sooner I can have it as I want it. There is a light switch. I flick it and a dull orange glow illuminates the space with a crackle and a fizz. I look at the wooden steps and wonder how to address them. Forwards? Or backwards, like a ladder? Then I remember Laurent’s head popping up from the trapdoor and decide to try the latter.
I climb down, seeing more and more of the cellar as I descend.
An axle is propped against the far wall, presumably from when it was a working mill, harnessing the water and turning the cogs for the stone upstairs. It’s a big space, and I could look into taking out the axle, perhaps make it cosier, with sofas and soft lighting. There are small windows level with the lawn, which I push open to let in some air.
The room doesn’t look as if it’s been used for anything otherthan storage. There are tools lying here and there, and I start by gathering them all into a toolbag lying open.
As my eyes adjust to the light, I see pencil drawings along the walls of what look like Punch and Judy faces. I pull out my phone and use the torch to get a better look at the words and marks. Next to the doodles are names.
Le mairie… and marks in roman numerals.
Le tire bouchon… and more marks, counting in bunches of five. It means corkscrew. Maybe the name of a local bar or restaurant.
La boulan …I can’t read it. But I’m thinking it’s theboulangerieand a name.
Madame …but the rest is rubbed out.
These look like orders for sacks of flour that have been taken for local businesses and families, scrawled quickly onto the wall instead of written down on paper.
