The women just stare at me as they pass by. Then, once a safe distance away, lean into each other, shoulder to shoulder, clearly discussing me. I raise a friendly hand and get a stiff nod back as they bustle towards the vending machine and buy their bread. It’s a small but consistent customer base. The women glance at me again, then turn to walk briskly away in their smart, low-heeled shoes, baskets at their sides, baguettes in hand, ready to prepare lunch.
And then I’m on my own in the square in the shade of the plane trees. The few stall holders are still packing up, and then there is just the sound ofpétanquefrom the older men as ball hits ball.
I kick away the leaves outside theboulangerie. I step into the small shop area, running my hand along the worn wooden counter, then walk behind it to the kitchen at the back. I stand and stare. I have no idea what all this equipment does.
I get a flashback to my days at the hospital, arriving terrified and without a clue how anything worked. I watched, week by week, as people came in, how we became accustomed to the machinery, the nurses and each other. Some were helped slowly until they were well enough to be signed off treatment. I thinkabout the scar on my left breast. Others, like Annie, were not so lucky.
I hold up my phone, take a photograph and send it to Annie.
You’ll never guess what I’ve gone and agreed to. I smile as I type.
Tell me!she messages back, and I explain how I’ve come to have the keys to the local bakery.
Then I text the family WhatsApp group.
Wow!says Pete.
Cool!says Jake.
Woohooo!says Maddie.Can you bakebread?
Working on it, I say.
Bit like myDJing!says Jake.
All okay,Jake?
Yeah, he replies.Bit like you, I’m workingon it.
Every journey starts with the first step. Keep going, I type.
I will, he says.
I send kisses, then leave the shop for the supermarket out of town to buy yet more cleaning products and flour. All I seem to have done so far is clean! The three old men playingpétanquewatch me go with interest. A day at a time, I repeat. But there’s one more thing I need to do before I start cleaning theboulangerie, something I need to put right.
Chapter 16
Ireturn from the supermarket, having enjoyed pushing the trolley up and down the aisles. The shop is much the same as back home, just smaller and with different products. I can negotiate this, I tell myself. I’ve been navigating all of this new life since I got here. I found driving on the other side of the road strange at first, but I’m getting used to it. On the journey back from the supermarket, I felt the beginning of familiarity about the route, just as I do now, parking under the shade of the plane trees in the square beside the baguette machine.
I pick up the cake tin next to me on the seat, which I went to the mill to collect on my way back from the supermarket, and get out of the car. The back seat is packed with cleaning products to leave at theboulangerie, a brush, mop and different bags of flour for testing. I look at thetabacand take a deep breath. The three old men are now sitting outside at a round table with cups of coffee in front of them. I lock the car and walk slowly towards thetabac, nodding to them as I approach. ‘Bonjour,’ I say politely as I pass. They incline their heads and stare at me as I go inside, clearly wondering what I’m doing here.
Inside, not only is it dark and cool, it’s also empty. There’s no one here at all. There are a small number of café-style tables with chairs, a couple of tables for two, one for four, and a large barrel for standing at to drink coffee or a lunchtimepastis.
‘Bonjour?’ I call, a little nervously.
‘J’arrive,’ I hear, and then Laurent appears in the doorway that leads to the back room, practically filling it. He stops,then slowly approaches the other side of the counter. His long dark hair appears to have been recently washed; he has a thick beard and brown eyes the colour of conkers, with eyebrows to match. He frowns when he sees me and puts his large hands on the counter, silver rings on his thumb and other fingers. For a moment neither of us speaks, and then he says, ‘Bonjour,’ and nods politely but cautiously. ‘How can I help you?’ He holds a hand to the coffee machine, ‘Caféor a beer maybe? Or have you come to hit me on the head again with whatever you might have in your basket?’
He may be joking – his dark eyes are sparkling.
I take a deep breath and put my basket on the counter. ‘I think I may owe you an apology.’
He allows a moment to pass without speaking, the awkward silence making me squirm. But, I tell myself, I’ve been through worse than a large rugby-playing type making me work at an apology.
He opens the dishwasher and steam pours out, like a dragon waking from its long winter slumber.
‘You think,’ he says, picking up a cup from the dishwasher and inspecting it, then looking at me with his dark eyes, ‘or you know?’ He lifts one eyebrow.
‘I …’ I clear my throat and hold his stare. ‘I’m sorry.Désolée,’ I add.
