‘Ah, Madame Bertou.’ He nods. ‘She has been a little tricky as a tenant since the bakery shut.’
‘Difficult is one word.’
‘She is set in her ways. She stays in her apartment. Theboulangerieclosed years ago, as you know, and the space has been empty since. It will be an adjustment.’
‘For her or for me? Oh, and the oven isn’t working properly,’ I say, keen to get on. ‘Do you know who I can call to fix it? I’ve tried googling someone to do oven repairs but I can’t find anyone.’
He smiles. ‘Of course. You need Laurent.’
My heart sinks. ‘Laurent?’
‘He runs thetabacacross the street. He is the best engineer around here. Unless it’s cars. That was Gilles, but he closed his garage some years ago too. He playspétanquewith his companions in the village. But for this, it’s Laurent you need.’
Of course it is, I think, and I have no doubt he’ll be amused by the cliché of me, the British woman, setting herself up as a baker and burning her bread.
‘He is your best hope around here for a quick fix.’
I leave themairieand wish I didn’t have to, but make for thetabacall the same.
‘It’s the knob,’ I assert, after sayingbonjourto Laurent and greeting the three regular customers in French.
Laurent raises his eyebrows.
‘On the oven,’ I say quickly. ‘The knob is loose and the oven is stuck at the highest temperature.’
‘Ah,’ he says, understanding.
He translates for the three men at the bar.
‘Ah …’ they say.
A conversation breaks out quickly between the four, and I don’t understand most of it. There are hand gestures and demonstrations of what I think are nuts and bolts and screws, and where the problem lies.
My eyes ping to and fro between Laurent and one man in particular in a light beige jacket and cap to match, as they discuss mechanisms and remedies. I’m assuming that’s Gilles. Lots of shrugging and waving at theboulangerieseem to bring the conversation to a close.
‘I’ll come now,’ says Laurent, going out to the back room and returning with a bag of tools. The same rough-around-the-edges bag of tools I put outside the cellar door at the mill.
‘Merci,’ I say, a little contrite.
I head out of the door, wishing the three men a good day, and Laurent follows me out into the summer sunshine.
‘Wait – thetabac? Who will look after it?’
He smiles. ‘My customers.’ He glances back at the three men propped against the bar, watching us. ‘I don’t think we’ll have a rush on any time soon.’ Despite his relaxed smile, I can see that’s not a good thing. How much money can he be making if he’s only selling three cups of coffee in the whole morning?
We head over to theboulangerieand I push open the door. He glances up, clearly expecting the bell, but it doesn’t ring. And somehow that seems sad. Like the life has gone from the place.
I watch as he puts his bag down, extracts a tool and goes straight to work. In the meantime, I busy myself, sweeping thealready very clean floor. In no time at all, he stands up straight and throws his tools back into the open bag on the floor.
‘It should work fine now,’ he says, standing back from the oven and washing his hands in the sink.
‘Merci,’ I say, wishing I could have repaired this for myself. ‘How much do I owe you?’
He considers, then gives me one of his lazy smiles. ‘Call it a favour. A new beginning between business neighbours.’
‘No.’ I reach for my purse. ‘Really, I need to pay you.’
He looks at me with a tilt of the head, as if amused. ‘It was just an adjustment,’ he says, before he adds with devilment, ‘It was a good job I had my tools.’
