She pulls back the curtain and steps into the once store room where the pencil marks covered the walls, just like in the cellar.
‘I’ve taken photographs of the drawings,’ I say. ‘But I thought I’d frame them on the walls. If that’s okay with you? I want to keep the history of this place here.’
She doesn’t say a word, running her hand over the walls, as ifreconnecting to the words that were once written there, to the past and her one true love.
‘This place isn’t about one person. It’s about all of you. A community. A lifelong love affair.’
She touches the wall. ‘I remember everything as if it was yesterday,’ says Madame B, and her face lights up with the memories, playing it over in her head.
‘What do you remember?’
‘How happy I felt here,’ she turns and smiles, ‘and the pencil drawings … as if I’d just done them!’ She runs her hands over the walls and she is smiling, but I can see tears rolling down her cheeks. ‘He would be proud of you, doing this,’ she says. ‘Very proud. He was a lot of things and stupid wasn’t one of them. Not one to wear his heart on his sleeve or show his feelings. But he did show me how to make the T55 flour for the baguettes. He didn’t write it down, I suppose, because he found writing hard, but also, he didn’t want anyone else finding it. He didn’t want any other bakers using his recipe. No one could rival his flour and he wasn’t going to let Claude’s family take anything else from him.’
She gazes at Laurent and me, then laughs. ‘Yes, I remember, now that I am here, as if it were yesterday. Would you like me to show you?’
We nod.
‘Yes, it’s been a long time since I saw the mill in action,’ says Laurent.
‘The thing is to get the wheat fine enough. We want T55 flour. This will make for a light loaf and whiter than the T65. And, of course, you must use the right farmer for your wheat. Your grandfather liked to use a combination of different wheat from different farmers.’
She looks at us. ‘Demain matin, tomorrow morning, we will visit the wheat farmers. It’s all in the wheat … and thesavoirfaire, the know-how. Baguettes may take only four ingredients, but a good loaf is all about the know-how, the chemistry.’
‘But what were the ratios of different wheat?’
‘I think I can remember,’ she says. ‘Near enough.’
‘But if you can’t, then we can’t make the same flour …’ Laurent says.
‘So there is a space for you to put your own mark in it. A piece of the past, the present and the future. Follow your instincts, Laurent. Put your mark on this place. Choose the wheat closest to what you remember, by theterroir, how it feels. When we cook with it, how will it taste? Like you remember?’
Over the next week, we tour the French countryside, Madame B sitting in my Fiat Panda, with Bibi on her lap, guiding me by memory to the family farms she knew in the past.
‘No, not left, straight ahead – oh, no, left here,’ she would say, sending me up small, uneven roads, not signposted, with Laurent squeezed into the back seat, his knees up around his chest.
‘I used to love visiting the farms with Raoul. It’s been a long time since I’ve been to these places.’ Her smile fades. ‘It’s been a long time since I’ve been anywhere.’
‘Do you leave the apartment?’ I ask, looking straight ahead on the dusty roads.
‘Of course I do! Once, maybe twice a week. For groceries, and cigarettes, and of course I take Bibi to stretch his little legs. But we were happy in our own company,’ she says, ‘until an irritating British cook kept knocking on my door!’ I see the corners of her mouth lift into a small smile. Something tells me she might be quite enjoying being out and in company. As is Bibi, sitting up tall and proud, looking out of the front window and watching the countryside go by.
At each of the farms, Madame B explains we are from themoulin, and introduces Laurent as Raoul’s grandson. He is greeted warmly. Some of the farms have older members still there, who remember Raoul and want to share a glass of wine with Laurent to talk about his grandfather, his skill and the respect he won from farmers for his choice of wheat, his prompt payment and his commitment to quality over profit.
By the end of the week, June has slipped into early July and we are sitting under the shade of the weeping willow by the lake.
‘So, we have the ingredients for the flour,’ I say, to Laurent and Madame B.
‘We need water,’ she says. ‘Water is one of the most important ingredients.’
‘A friend of mine has a spring. His water is tested and excellent quality. He will deliver it to you at the bakery,’ Laurent tells me.
‘Good, good!’ Madame B nods.
‘And yeast?’
‘And yeast, yes. I have spoken to a supplier,’ I say. ‘It’s not cheap, but it will be good. I think your grandfather would agree on quality over profit,’ I say, and Laurent nods and smiles.
‘Now all we need is salt … from the coast,’ says Madame B, and with that we all get back into the car and drive out to the Brittany coast for a day by the sea, locating a salt producer and eating small, sweet mussels, in white wine and garlic sauce, with crunchyfrites, creamy homemade mayonnaise and a carafe of cold rosé wine, eating in the salty, sunny air.
