‘You …’ I’m still flummoxed ‘… you know how to make bread.’
She sniffs and gives a little laugh. ‘Yes. Of course it was seen as a man’s profession, but I was determined. Got up earlier than everyone else, worked harder. When I took the place on, I hired an assistant, swore him to secrecy, and we pretended he made the bread, when in fact it was me,’ she says, stroking Bibi. ‘But once the mill closed, after your grandfather died, there was no point in continuing. Customers were fewer and fewer and, of course, with Raoul gone, the mill silent, there seemed little point in going on.’
‘I never knew any of this,’ says Laurent. ‘I didn’t even know you were a baker.’
‘It was easier that way. People can be very distrustful. A woman baker! Nothing much changes. A British woman trying to bake French bread?’ She looks at me and I know what she means. ‘Like I say,’ she sniffs again, ‘I employed Davide and said he was the baker. But he was my assistant. When I decided to close, he moved away and set up a café in the Dordogne.’
‘I remember Davide. And everyone thought it was him leaving that closed theboulangerie,’ says Laurent.
‘Didn’t that make you cross? Didn’t you want people to know it was you?’ I ask, enraged on her behalf.
She shakes her white head. ‘I just wanted to shut myself away. Live with my memories and play out in my mind what might have been. You see, unrequited love, it’s the love that never dies.’
She looks at me and then at Laurent. We glance at each other and quickly away.That’s not us, I think.It won’t be.I’m not in love with this man. I just … like being with him. That’s all. Nothing more than that.
‘Will you come to the mill?’ I ask Madame B. ‘I think you could help us.’
‘No,’ she says firmly.
‘What? Sleep on it, please?’
She finishes her drink and we watch as she carries Bibi back up to her apartment, shutting the door firmly behind her.
Chapter 30
The following day, Laurent’s sole focus is on making the sluice gate work smoothly – rubbing down the cog and replacing the fitting on the top, then checking and rechecking it. Waiting.
I do what I’ve always done when I need to focus on something other than my worries: I bake.
As the sun starts to set, casting beautiful oranges and yellows over the lake, I step outside onto the lawn. ‘She’s not coming, is she?’ I say, as Laurent walks out of the mill to stand beside me, handing me a glass of wine, and holding a bottle of beer for himself. I have come to love this little ritual of a drink at the end of the day, looking out over the lake as the sun begins to set.
‘No, I don’t think she is,’ he says, and tips his beer bottle towards my glass. ‘Santé,’ he says. Which means an awful lot more than he knows.
‘To good health,’ I say back, catching his eye. I immediately snatch away my gaze and scan the water for my familiar friends, the kingfishers, wishing they would show themselves and give a sign of what to do next.
I go to speak, but as I do, there’s movement behind us and I hope it’s not Claude again. I turn slowly to see Madame B, Bibi under her arm, steadying herself by leaning against the mill wall.
‘Madame Bertou,’ I say, and Laurent stands up to greet her.
‘Sit, sit,’ she says to him, waving a hand and brushing aside her usual insistence on formalities. She’s a little out of breath.
I walk towards her and hold out a hand. She takes it and I lead her over the lawn to the edge of the lake where Laurent and Iare sitting. She’s entranced. Neither of us says a word, letting her take the lead. ‘It was love,’ she says. ‘I just fell in love.’ She turns back to the mill and looks up at it. ‘And for a moment I thought he might love me back, but if he did, he didn’t admit to it. He was waiting for your grandmother. He wasted so much time and love, waiting for her to return.’
‘So you spent time here,’ I ask tentatively.
‘Whenever I could, I’d offer to help.’
‘We want to get the mill up and running, make the same flour,’ I tell her, hoping I haven’t mistimed this, but she seems to be listening. ‘I’ve looked everywhere … I can’t find the recipe. It has to be here somewhere.’
She points to the front door. ‘May I?’ she asks.
‘Of course!’ I say, and follow her.
She goes down the two stone steps into the big room and looks around, drinking in the memories and taking in the changes.
‘I wanted to keep it as authentic as possible,’ I say. ‘But it needed renovating. I’m keeping the mill workings,’ I say, nodding to the dormant wheels and the millstones. ‘I made that decision without any real thought, but it would feel wrong to take out the heart of the mill.’ Laurent nods and smiles back, understanding.
Madame B puts Bibi on the floor and he scampers around, sniffing and exploring, and carries on to my living quarters, with my mezzanine bedroom, at the back of the building. My bedroom … where I’ve been painting.
