I look at Laurent who has carried on setting out his tables and chairs. I did it. I didn’t need help. I’m doing this on my own. Little victories, I tell myself. One day at a time. I can do this.
I look down at the floor and my head swims. That’s new. I’ve never felt that before. I peer up at the door frame and pretend I’m checking for cleanliness while I try to work out how to get down … or at least wait until Laurent has gone back inside and I can do it as clumsily as I like. And I do. Once he goes back into the little bar, I crouch on the table, grab the back of the chair and sit down heavily, then shimmy off the table and onto the floor,jarring my knees. Not so much the woman I used to be, but the one I am today. And that’ll do me.
I pull the table and chair into the window bay, in front of the old oven that’s just for decoration now, and in front of the net curtains I’ve washed and rehung across the window.
I put the bell next to the till. The shop and kitchen are spotless, and I can’t put it off any more. I have to bake bread and make sure it’s good. Laurent’s words ring in my head: if you make decent bread, I’m sure people will come.
I look at the ovens in the bakery behind the counter.
With the kitchen clean and sparkling and work at the mill on hold, today is the day. I need to actually start baking.
It’s just four ingredients: flour, water, yeast and salt.
I can do this.
I prop my phone against the bag of flour I bought at the out-of-town supermarket and follow the YouTube video.
Maybe I can’t, a voice says in my head.
And then I think of Claude. Oh yes I can. I think of Jake, me telling him about every journey starting with the first step. I think of Annie and her determination to get well enough to visit me here. I can do this, and I’m going to! I get out the ingredients, begin weighing them, then remember why I’m doing this. I’m doing it because of Claude, because of Annie. And because I can.
I measure everything carefully, following the instructions on my screen to the letter. ‘Every journey starts with the first step,’ I repeat, as I bring the ingredients together and start to work the dough, ready to bake the next day. I’m in my own world, enjoying the peace in the privacy of the kitchen. Maybe there’s something to be said for being invisible after all, left to enjoy yourself, finding your purpose.
Chapter 18
It’s early in the morning, not yet light. I want to be at theboulangeriewithout anyone watching me from thetabacand while my neighbour is still asleep, not banging on the ceiling. I need to get in as much practice as I can if I’m to have this business up and running.
The ovens are on.
I’ve shaped the loaves into long cylinders and re-proved them. I’ve followed the instructions from YouTube and what I could remember from all the googling I could do. They look like baguettes. I admire them lined up on the baking sheet, each in its little hammock, ready for the oven.
I stand back and photograph them, ready to send pictures to everyone back home. Then I slide them in and shut the door, before I dust off my hands and set a timer. Once that’s done, I go to the scullery and make a coffee, then walk back through the shop and open the front door quietly. I stare out over the empty square. Dawn is breaking. I breathe in, taking time to be in the moment.
The little cat strolls over to me, rubbing against my legs. I bend and stroke him, his purring making me smile. I go inside, fetch a bowl of water and put it down, stroking the cat some more and enjoying the peace of the early-morning light, the company of my new feline friend and the coffee. My thoughts turn to the mill and the work I’ve got to do there. I share pictures I’ve taken recently with the family WhatsApp group and Annie. I haven’t heard from her for a few days, which is unusual, but Isend the pictures of theboulangerieand the unbaked baguettes, waiting to be turned into golden wonders. I hope that news from my business venture will make her smile. I wait to hear back from her.
The smell of burning catapults me from my thoughts. I run back in through the shop, around the high wooden counter and to the kitchen beyond. Smoke tumbles from the oven as I throw open the door and cough. The smoke alarm starts its incessant beeping and the banging starts from upstairs.
‘Arrêt! Mon dieu!I’m dying from smoke up here!’ she yells in French. She’s talking very quickly, but I get the gist of what she’s saying.
I open all the doors and windows and wave a tea-towel in front of the smoke alarms.
‘Is everything okay?’ I hear a shout from across the square. It’s Laurent. And I’m not sure why, but I don’t want him to think I’m not up to this. It’s like I have something to prove, after misjudging him so badly. I want to prove I can get something right.
‘Absolument!’ I try to smile and give a thumbs-up. ‘All good!’ I wave the smoke out, as if it was completely normal, and hear the window open upstairs.
‘I could suffocate up here! What are you doing down there, Madame?’
‘Sorry, Madame. I’m sorting it out now.’
‘Vite!Quickly!’ she says, and bangs the window shut.
With the burnt baguettes in the bin, and the smoke alarm finally off, I examine the oven and realise there’s a problem with the temperature-control button. While the casing moves, the mechanism inside is stuck on the highest setting. Try as I might, I can’t shift it.
I grab my bag, lock theboulangeriedoor and head to the mayor’s office. Instead of waiting to be told ‘Non’ by thereceptionist, I stalk straight to the mayor’s desk as the woman throws up her hands, and I catch a flash of red from her long, painted nails. I can feel her scowl as I pass.
‘Madame Juliet!’ He smiles. ‘How are things going at theboulangerie? Will we soon have our own bread made here in the village?’
I let out a long sigh and shake my head. ‘Not unless I can get the oven working properly and my neighbour stops complaining by banging on the floor above.’
