In between and over the pencil-written orders, there’s more graffiti on the walls too. Someone has had a whale of a time with tins of spray-paint. Clearly a more recent addition. But amongst the spray-paint, high up by the door, leading out of the cellar towards the piggery, I find another pencil drawing: a face with more writing on it. I wish I knew what it meant. I look around. A coat of whitewash will brighten it all up, I think.
I look at the boxes of parts, small cogs and handles, and wonder where to get rid of it all. Clearly the previous owner isn’t coming back for it.
I start to pile the boxes beneath the trapdoor. I’ll use the cellar for storage for the time being, and bring in my napkins, cutlery and crockery. Then, when the kitchen is open, I’ll use this as my cold store, get some fridges down here. I go to the back door, which is warped, worn and fairly flimsy, and give the handle a twist and a tug, letting in the daylight.
I hear the women approaching, heading for their cars, wishingeach other abon dimancheandbon appétit– they must be going home for lunch.
I decide to stay in the shadows of the cellar, rather than step out with the boxes. I’ll wait for them to pass. I turn away from the open door.
‘Bonjour.’ A voice makes me jump.
‘Madame, bonjour.’ There’s another.
Each woman acknowledges me as they pass, fishing gear in hand, with small stools and cool boxes.
‘Bonjour,’ I reply to each one, suddenly realising I’ve been noticed. And it feels nice.
‘Bon appétit,’ I say, leaning out of the door as they load their equipment into their cars.
‘Merci, à vous,’ they say, and start their engines, moving off the drive and towards the town.
I turn back into the cellar and promptly trip over one of the boxes, sending myself sprawling across the floor. When the noise from the clatter of the box of parts stops, I lie still, where I am, and listen. I’m all alone. The fisherwomen have gone. All I can hear is the birds outside. I do a quick mental check of myself – nothing broken – and slowly stand, dusting myself down and looking at the debris surrounding me.
I thank my lucky stars I’m not hurt and that nothing is damaged, and begin to pick up the junk and sling it back into the wooden box. I reach out and toss the rusting spanners and old nails back in, wishing I had Sunday lunch almost ready and wondering if thetabacin the town serves food. Maybe I should try to make peace there: if I want Laurent to support my business, I should support his. But judging by the look on his face as he left the mayor’s office, I don’t think it’ll be easy. In fact, as nice an idea as it would be, thetabacis probably the last place I should go. I pick up a tin, the final bit of junk, and toss it towards the box.
It hits the edge of the box, causing its lid to open and its contents to spill out. I stand and stare. That is not what I was expecting to find in an old coffee tin! Small packets of white powder are scattered about. I’m not daft – I know what it is, packaged up to pass on to customers. I’ve seen enough episodes ofCrimewatchto know that it certainly isn’t washing powder. Each one is sealed, and now I look into the box of junk, I see scales too.
What on earth?
I think back to Laurent being in the cellar when I moved in. That must have been why he was down here, hiding his stash in the abandoned mill. Well, it’s my mill now and I’m not going to have him – or anyone else for that matter – coming here to collect this. All I can think to do is one thing. I go to the kitchen, turn on the taps and, one by one, snip off the tops of the packages and flush away the contents. Then I wash my hands thoroughly – furious that I’m having to be a part of this – when there’s a knock at the door.
Chapter 9
‘You!’ I say, looking up at Laurent. He takes a small step backwards, then dips his head politely.
‘Bonjour, Madame.’
He waits for me to reply. But I don’t. I’m cross that he came here the first time and even crosser that he has the nerve to come again, and now I know what for!
‘Look,’ he holds out his big hands, with the silver rings, ‘we may have got off on the wrong foot. We weren’t properly introduced the other day. I apologise.’
For a moment I think of him discovering me wrestling with a bread-vending machine and then appearing through the trapdoor.
‘You took me by surprise. I wasn’t expecting anyone to be here when I came. No one had told me.’
‘And you took me by surprise,’ I retort.
He looks up at the mill. ‘It’s been empty for a long time.’
I nod. ‘So I’m told. But it’s sold now. And it’s not somewhere for people to drop in when they feel like it. Or decorate the walls with their own designs.’
‘I understand,’ he says. ‘Let me introduce myself properly.’ He holds a hand to his broad chest. ‘I am Laurent. I rent and run thetabacin the town.’
He waits for my response. ‘And you are?’ he prompts.
None of this is really to make amends, I decide. Most likely he’s here to pick up the merchandise I’ve just flushed down the sink.
I hold him with a steely stare. Maybe I should be scared, but I’m not. I may be here on my own, but this place has a good feeling. Despite the silly graffiti and opportunists using it to hide their stash, I don’t feel alone. In fact, I felt more alone during my marriage than I do here right now.
