He shakes his head.
‘I’ve photographed them all on my phone. Just in case they mean something to someone.’
‘And you, Juliet? Have you found anything relating to the recipe, the flour? We need to work out exactly what the quantities were and mix the flour to the same blend.’
‘Nothing I can find yet.’
‘My grandfather knew it all by heart,’ says Laurent. ‘I should have learnt it when he was still alive.’
The sky seems to be getting darker.
‘It can’t be gone for ever,’ I say.
A few drops of rain fall, so we pick up our cups and head inside. I shiver. ‘When the sun goes in, it’s cold in here,’ I say.
Laurent looks around the freshly painted big room. ‘Where’s your wood?’ he asks.
‘Wood?’
‘For the fire.’ He points to the grate in the stone fireplace, blackened around the edges.
‘I didn’t expect to need it in summer.’
He looks surprised. ‘You haven’t been to collect some?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘I didn’t know I had to.’
‘You need to stay warm, and so does the building. She’s an old girl. She needs looking after.’ He pats the walls.
I think of his grandfather here, working the mill, bringing up Laurent, while his wife was philandering. The fire in my stomach starts to build. ‘Well, we’d better get some!’ I say. ‘Tell me where to go.’
He smiles. ‘I know all the best places. My grandfather taught me from an early age.’
‘Okaay …’ I say. ‘I’ll get my handbag.’
‘You won’t need that. Just yourself.’
We go out of the big doors, which are open. There are no fisherwomen at the lake today: it’s Monday, market day.
The dark clouds are building in the sky.
‘Come on, I’ll show you how we collect wood. No need to buy it from the supermarket.’
He heads for the corner of the lake, at the start of the worn footpath around the edge. Once he reaches the open canoe, he steps down into it, wobbling slightly, and holds out a hand to me.
‘You want me to get in there?’ I look at the weatherworn craft in the corner of the lake. Light droplets of rain sprinkle over the water, causing little ripples.
‘Oui, it is the best way,’ he says. ‘Come.’
‘Oh, no … I’m not good on water. I love looking at it, but I’ve never been that good a swimmer.’
‘You’re not going to swim, you’re going to paddle, up there.’ He points to where the lake becomes more shaded under the boughs of the trees. ‘You can’t live in a watermill and not use the lake. It’s here to help you! It’s your friend!’
‘You’ve got to be joking!’ I laugh.
‘Non,’ he says, still holding out his hand.
I stare at it.
