‘Madame, bonjour. Have you a problem? Why are you knocking on my door? Is this an unarranged visit or is there an emergency that cannot wait?’
‘I need to know more about theboulangerie. About the bread.’
She stares at me. ‘I cannot help you.’
‘But you’ve lived here for years, I gather. You must have an opinion, like everyone else around here, on what type of bread to make. Dark, light, salty?’
‘Why? People always go on about bread … bread, bread, bread …’ She waves her spare hand around, the one that’s not holding the dog. ‘There is a reason no one wants thatboulangerie… It will bring you no luck. A big, strong man worked here, making perfect baguettes. But it didn’t bring any happiness to anyone. Leave the bread to people who know. Stay away from theboulangerie. It’s better that way.’
‘Or maybe someone doesn’t want it to work?’ I think about Claude and his bread machines. She doesn’t respond. ‘Like a bread racket?’
She says nothing and shrugs. ‘You have to offer something different if you want these women to buy from you and not Claude. It’s like changing your doctor … someone you trust. They need to know you will turn up. You need to impress them. Whywould they choose bread made by a British woman, who isn’t even a trained baker?’
I look past her and see the small table and chair where she must normally sit, overlooking the square. I can tell the conversation is over – her tone indicates as much – but I cautiously proceed. ‘You said I needed to offer something different. What did you mean? I need to find out how to make the bread they want to buy. Do you know who can help me? Please.’
‘I’m sorry, I can’t help.’
The dog is squirming under her arm. She goes to shut the door.
‘Okay,’ I say. I’m not going to get any further. ‘I suppose I just wanted to leave my mark. Feel I’ve done something I can be proud of.’ I’m searching for the words about how I feel. How I needed to step outside my comfort zone, take the risk, live the good life.
The door opens again. ‘If you want advice, Madame, try thetabac.’ She juts out her chin and I’ve been dismissed.
The door shuts and I walk down the stairs in the brisk wind, having wasted my time. The three men at the bar have already given me their opinions and none of it has helped. My beginner’s luck with the first loaves has run out on me and I have no idea how to get thisboulangerieup and running if I can’t make bread. And judging by the disasters in the bin, I can’t.
Chapter 21
When I go to close theboulangerie, I find, on the front doorstep, a baguette. It’s upside down, bottom side up. I frown and pick it up. Who would have left a baguette there for me? Is someone offering me some kind of advice on how to make a good one? Or perhaps they’ve left it there to taunt me, laughing at my efforts.
I close the shop, lock it and walk across the square, feeling as if I’m being watched. I probably am. Edith Piaf has started up again and I imagine Madame B, as I like to think of her, back in her window seat.
I walk into the cool of thetabacand put the baguette on the counter while I climb onto a stool.
‘Bonjour,’ says Laurent, sounding surprised.
‘Bonjour. Un café, s’il vous plaît,’ I say.
He nods politely. ‘Of course.’ He pours the coffee and puts it on the counter.
I rummage in my bag and can’t find what I’m looking for – I must have left my purse back at the mill. But then I remember. I put my hand on the euro in my top pocket and hand it back to Laurent.
He gives a smile of satisfaction.
‘Bonjour,’ I say to the three old men, ready for their dailypétanque, and they reply politely and formally.
I sip the coffee. The steam fills my senses before I take a sip. Hot, earthy and strong.
Laurent looks sideways at the baguette on the counter while polishing glasses. He nods at it. ‘Is this one you made earlier?’
I sip the coffee again, making the tip of my tongue tingle as I shake my head. ‘It was on the doorstep of theboulangerie. Perhaps someone is telling me how I should be making bread properly. But there was no note, just the bread.’
He narrows his eyes. ‘Which way up was the bread?’
‘Sorry?’ I ask, confused.
‘The baguette, which way was it lying?’ He demonstrates by turning it one way and then the other.
‘This way, upside down.’ I shrug, ‘Why?’
