I can tell we’re still on sticky ground. ‘I did. And, as I said, I came to apologise. And to say …’ I take a deep breath and a run at it ‘… I’m opening theboulangerieopposite. I hope you’ll want to come and buy bread.’
He stares at me. ‘Theboulangeriein the village?’
‘Yes, so that people will have fresh bread instead of relying on the vending machine,’ I say.
‘My wife swears by Claude’s bread,’ says one of the old men, helping himself to another piece of cake. ‘Says it stays fresh longer than others.’
Laurent slaps the counter, his rings clattering. ‘But it shouldn’t stay fresh. That’s the point!’ he says crossly, in French, and I get the feeling this is a regular topic of conversation at this bar. ‘No one ever bought French bread for its shelf life. They buy it for the crunch, the soft middle to soak up the juices on the plate, not for how long it can hang around in the kitchen. If it’s hanging around, it isn’t good bread!’
‘She probably said that because she fancies him,’ says the third old man, already eating a second slice.
‘Or maybe she is one of his lovers!’ jokes the first, helping himself to more cake.
‘Whohasn’the slept with?’ says the second.
My cheeks burn at the memory of his lips on mine. ‘Anyway.’I clear my throat and Laurent looks back at me. ‘I hope you’ll come and try my bread.’ I say it confidently, even though secretly I am wondering how on earth I am going to compete with the local baker when I know barely anything about bread. As the woman above theboulangerieremarked, I’m British and I’m not a professional baker.
‘You won’t be the first to try,’ says one of the men at the bar, and the others nod in agreement.
I clasp my hands together and turn to leave.
‘Madame,’ I hear Laurent say as I reach the door. I turn back with one hand on the cool handle. ‘Madame, wait,’ he repeats, and beckons to me.
‘Juliet. I’m Juliet,’ I say, trying not to feel I’ve made a fool of myself by bringing him a cake.
‘Juliet,’ he says, as he takes a bite of cake. ‘It’s good,’ he says slowly, taking another bite and raising the piece in my direction. ‘If you make decent bread, I’m sure people will come. You just have to offer them something different from what’s already available.’ He shrugs one shoulder. ‘If it’s as tasty as your cake,’ he smiles lazily, and holds up the piece he’s eating, ‘I’m sure you will have no worries.Bonne chance et bon profitez.’
‘Merci. And apologies again.’
‘Wait,’ he says as I turn to leave. ‘I have a gift for you.’ He reaches into the till and then slides a euro across the counter. ‘You never know when it will come in useful. A good-luck gift for your new venture.’
I smile at the gesture and walk back over to the counter to take the coin. ‘Merci,’ I say, and put it back in my pocket.
He smiles as I leave the café, and I find myself smiling too, my head high as I walk back to theboulangerie, push open the door and the bell rings – followed by knocking on the floor above.
‘Arrêt!’ comes a complaining shout, presumably from my neighbour upstairs.
I lean against the door, my back to thetabac, ears burning. I remember his words: ‘the crunch, the soft middle to soak up the juices … If you make decent bread, I’m sure people will come.’
I hope so, because it’s the only way I have of getting the mill up and running. I head to the scullery, just beyond the bakery, and turn on the taps over the sink, which splutter and spurt. Once the water starts pouring, I run a cloth under it and start to clean as if my life depends on it … because life as I know it actually does.
Chapter 17
Ispend the next week cleaning at theboulangerie, getting up early, drinking my coffee and looking out over the lake. Most days, Geneviève arrives to fish. We greet each other, share a coffee as she sets up her seat for the day, and I leave with my bucket of cleaning products and drive the short distance to the village square. As I get out of the car each morning, I raise a tentative hand to Laurent as he sets tables and chairs outside thetabac, which I’m pretty sure will stay fairly unused, apart from the threepétanqueplayers, ushered out of their houses for the day by their wives. I also make a point of bending to stroke the little cat that wanders over to greet me from the direction of themairieevery morning.
I open the door to theboulangerieand the bell above it rings. Already my neighbour upstairs is banging on her floor, telling me to keep the noise down.
I sigh. ‘I’m going to have to take you down if I’m to get any peace,’ I say to the bell. I look around for something to stand on. A chair or a table. It’s been a long time since I’ve done something like this.
I see one in the scullery, a square, dark wood table, and haul it towards the door, half lifting, half dragging it across the polished tiles, so as not to incur any more complaints from the woman upstairs, followed by a volley of barks from her small dog.
I stare at the table. Years ago, I would have climbed onto it and got on with the job, like the time Christmas dinner set off the smoke alarms, scaring the living daylights out of the childrenand my mother. Pete’s mother tutted and Pete asked if he should call the fire brigade. I said no, and handed him a tea-towel, one each to the children, and told them to waft it at the smoke alarm. I grabbed a chair from the dining room, climbed onto it and removed the battery. Everything went immediately silent, and the children ran around waving their tea-towels above their heads for the next half-hour while Pete’s mother told him how brilliant he’d been to sort out the problem.
Just like back then, I’m dealing with this problem solo. I get a chair and put it against the table. I’m more cautious than I would have been at home. I step onto the chair first – it wobbles and I grip the back, then slowly lift my left foot to join the right. I’m crouched unsteadily on the chair, wondering whether to get down and leave it or keep going.
I glance out and see Laurent watching me from the other side of the square. He’s standing, a chair in hand, putting them out in the sunshine. I may be crouched on a chair, but my pride is refusing to let me get down. I straighten and step up to the table. One foot, and then I have to take the leap of faith to get both feet on the table. I straighten and am face to face with the little brass bell.
I unhook it from over the door. Hopefully, now, there will be less banging from the neighbour.
