‘A baguette can be a delicious meal, with cheese and tomatoes … or it can be a symbol of bad luck.’
‘Bad luck?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s just a baguette!’ I say, reaching for it.
‘Maybe someone doesn’t want you here, making bread,’ he says. Gilles and the other men are watching with interest, nodding and frowning at the loaf.
I pick it up, ignoring them. I rip off the rounded end. It’s starting to go a little stale. The outside is not crunchy; the inside is white. I taste it. It’s pleasant, but not amazing. Not like the baguette I had on the first day I arrived in France on my own – that first taste of my new life.
I offer a piece to Laurent, but he shakes his head. He takes the loaf from me. ‘In order to keep the bad luck at bay, you have to do this.’ He pulls out a penknife from his pocket, marks a cross in the back of the baguette and puts it back on the counter.
I shrug. I’ve faced worse than a disgruntled neighbour wanting me to leave. The way things are going, it looks as if Madame B will get her wish sooner rather than later if I can’t make a satisfactory baguette. He puts away his penknife, picks up a tea-towel and dries a coffee cup. I sip the hot strong coffee,which revives my flagging spirits. I say to Laurent, without much thought, ‘Why were you at the mill that day?’ I hold the little coffee cup in both hands, enjoying the warmth, despite the hot day.
‘The day you hit me over the head?’
‘You were in my property,’ I challenge him.
He makes a conciliatory moue, as if to say, ‘Fair enough.’ Then, a little more seriously, ‘I came for my tools. I really did. It’s the truth. The ones in the cellar I used on your oven. Nothing else you might have thought! I’m many things, a hothead at times, yes, but I am not the local drug-dealer.’
‘Did you spend a lot of time at the mill?’
He looks at me, mulling over the question, and then he nods. ‘Yes, I did.’
I sip my coffee.
‘They say that if you throw yourself into what you love doing, you’ll end up finding yourself there.’
‘And did you?’
‘Yes, I did,’ he repeats, and we lapse into our own thoughts.
Then, ‘There are drawings on the wall, in the mill,’ I say.
He focuses further on what he’s doing, still drying the coffee cup until it can’t be any drier. ‘The drawings?’
‘You know the ones I mean … in the old store room, which is now my living room, and down in the cellar.’
‘There are old orders on the walls,’ he said, ‘from local businesses wanting flour.’
‘Yes, but other messages too. Love notes, I think.’
He says nothing and puts the cups onto the shelves.
‘I’m about to start painting it, but maybe I shouldn’t. Maybe the drawings mean something to somebody.’
‘You painted over them?’
‘Not yet. Like I say, I wonder if they’d mean something to someone.’
‘Maybe they do. The mill holds secrets for many people.’
‘Not just the local drug-dealer,’ I say, and there is a moment of connection in which, if we weren’t being quite so guarded with each other, we might have laughed.
‘So why were your tools at the mill?’ I ask.
He shrugs again and says casually, ‘I was doing some repairs. Keeping the workings in order. It is a mill, not a bed and breakfast or café.’
