I blush at the memory of hitting him on the head and tossing out his bag. ‘I need to do something to pay you back.’
‘Bring me some bread when you have made some …’ – he looks at the cremated articles in the bin – ‘… that is edible.’
A laugh ripples through me. And he laughs too, his chest rising and falling, his dark hair cascading over his shoulders, which judder with mirth.
‘It’s a deal!’ I say.
‘Well,bonne journée,’ he says, as he picks up his toolbag and heads out of the door, into the sunshine, and back across the road towards thetabac. The three elderly men are waiting to debate the mechanics of the oven knob and whose solution was the best, I presume: they’re animatedly holding up their hands and making a point to each other, which may be the same point, but it seems to have caused great discussion.
‘Come on, now. I can do this. I can make something edible,’ I say, and find myself laughing again as I turn back to the oven.
Chapter 19
The following morning, I follow the YouTube video to the letter, just as before. Making sure I do everything correctly and miss nothing. The weather outside is a near-perfect summer’s day. No breeze, just warm sunshine. I turn on the oven and weigh out the ingredients for the dough. I need seven kilos of dough for twenty baguettes. I halve the amount of flour I need for the mix.
I pour the flour and water into the kneading machine and set the timer on my watch, then check the instructions, adding the yeast and the salt.
The dough is starting to come together and I can smell the warm, soft mixture filling the early-morning air – and as it does, my spirits lift.
When the timer sounds, I switch off the kneading machine and add the dough to the cutting machine. It delivers sausage shapes, all the same weight, out of the chute. I stretch each piece of dough, then put them into rows, ready for proving. This next fermentation takes two hours. I make another batch, just to be sure I’m doing it right, whilst I’m waiting. I wait and I wait … until finally, my first batch are plumped up and ready for baking. I cut straight diagonal lines down each one so that the air can escape and, using the wooden palette knife, I put each piece of dough onto the baking tray. Then I spray each with water and slide them into the oven. While I’m at it, I make a batch of shortbread just to keep my hands busy. I step out into the morning light to see Laurent outside thetabac.
‘Bonjour, Juliet,’ he calls across the square, and waves politely, before unlocking the door.
‘Bonjour, Laurent.’ I raise a hand, then turn back inside, anxious not to be away from my bread for too long.
After exactly fourteen minutes, I pull it out.
I stare at the loaves on the work surface. They look like baguettes. Golden and crisp on the outside. I pick one up. It smells like a baguette. I break it in two. It cracks. Steam spirals upwards from the soft inside. And suddenly a wide smile breaks out on my face. I’ve done it. I’ve made French bread!
I breathe in deeply, tear off a piece, and the white, fluffy crumb pulls away like cotton wool. I smell it again, before popping the warm bread into my mouth. First the crunch from the shiny crust, then my teeth sinking into the soft white inside. I’m euphoric.
I gather up the loaves in my arms, put them into a basket, alongside my tin of shortbread, and head out of the bakery door. I look nervously at thetabac. I’ll pop across later to see Laurent, but I have to know first of all how I’ve done. And I know just the people who will tell me. I jump into the car and head to the mill, where the cars are parked along the driveway. The fisherwomen are there.
‘Geneviève!’ I call, and wave. She raises a hand and smiles. I hurry around the side of the lake towards the flat rock where the women are fishing in the morning sun.
‘I’ve done it! I’ve made bread!’ I tell them, indicating the five loaves I’m carrying. ‘Here, for your lunch! To go with your fish!’ I beam.
Geneviève takes them in her arms. ‘Bonjour, Juliet.’ Then she kisses my cheeks gently. ‘You were at theboulangerieearly again this morning. I miss our morning coffees!’ She laughs.
‘Oh, yes, sorry,bonjour.’ I kiss her cheeks and feel thebaguettes’ warmth between us. ‘I picked the best ones, but I think I still need to work on them all looking the same.’
‘Well done!’ she says. And hearing her say that, I could burst with pride.
‘Bravo!’ say the other women, and give a little clap. ‘Bravo!’ Although I’ve only just met them, their support means everything. I hope they know that.
‘Let me know what you think! I have another to deliver to see if I can spread the word.’ I beam even wider, if that was possible, and turn to leave.
‘Bonne chance,’ Geneviève says, and the other women join in and wave as I pick my way along the edge of the lake, down the slope and back to my car. I drive back to the village square and park. I look at theboulangerieand there, in the window above, Madame Bertou is staring at me, dog under her arm, drawing long and hard on her cigarette.
It has to be worth a try. I go into my shop, grab another baguette, then hurry up the stairs to the front door of the flat above.
‘Madame Bertou,’ I say, as she opens the door. ‘Bonjour.’
‘Madame.’ She nods with downturned mouth and a cigarette between her fingernails. She’s wearing a silk scarf around her neck, as always, a blue-and-cream-striped top, smart, dark blue jeans and Gucci-style slip-on shoes with the gold horse-bit across the top.
I hold out the loaf, like a runner handing the baton to the next in a relay. She looks down at it but doesn’t take it. She draws on her cigarette. ‘What is this? I thought you would have given up this ridiculous notion of trying to make bread after the burning. Oh,mon dieu, it was disgusting. Why are you still persisting?’
‘I have to,’ I say, still holding out the baguette.
