Chapter 31
When I wake the next day, I look up at the dark sky. It’s the silent time when night meets day, on its way in the distance. Even the neighbouring cockerel isn’t awake, still tucked up and not yet announcing morning.
Under a blanket of stars, I follow the torch on my phone around the building to my car. I leave the mill and drive up towards the sleeping village, past small terraced houses, their shutters tightly shut.
I can smell the dew after the warm night, settling on the hedgerow, among the glistening cobwebs, as I drive with the windows open along the lane to the square and turn right at the end of the road. My heart skips when I see the lights on and a warm orange glow from theboulangeriewindow. I pull up and get out, feeling the welcome of the lights drawing me in, like the beating heart of the town. I smile as I open the door.
‘Bonjour, Madame,’ I say. ‘You’re in early.’
‘Bonjour, Juliet,’ she says, emerging from the bakery, dressed in her usual smart pressed top, a silk scarf around her neck and a white apron. She steps forward and we kiss each other lightly on each cheek. I know now that without this formality there will be no further conversation.
When I’ve removed my light scarf from around my neck, she hands me an apron. The ovens are already on and I can hear their hum, but no one is banging today.
‘First,café,’ she says, pointing towards the little kitchen. ‘And then, we will bake bread.’
We make the coffee and I look at the dough, ready and waiting.
‘The dough must be made the night before and left to rest. Like me, it needs its beauty sleep!’ She laughs. Her whole face has lit up – she looks younger.
‘So, the flour’s going to make the difference now?’
She looks at me steadily. ‘And the final ingredient.’
‘But you said there were only four.’
‘Four ingredients in the bowl, but the other is the most important of all. The weather. That is thesavoir faire,’ she says, with a flourish. ‘How do you say? … The know-how. You have to work with the weather or everything will be terrible.’
She smiles again, and this time I swear she gives a little wink.
‘That’s where I was going wrong. The first day I made bread and it worked, it was a calm, still day. The second time, it was windy, cooler.’
She nods. ‘We have to work with Mother Nature. She keeps us on our toes. Unless we listen to her, we will have nothing to eat. She is a strict teacher, but a generous provider when we adhere to her way of doing things.’
Bibi is sitting by the door, watching the world go by, or maybe keeping an eye open for the mayor’s cat.
‘I just wish I’d been able to do this myself.’
‘But it is you who have made this happen. You have brought both of the important things together here. The flour from Laurent, and from me thesavoir faire.’
She smiles again. ‘Now, we will shape the loaves and sign them.’ She waves a small knife at me. ‘Don’t forget, we eat with our eyes first. They must look inviting as well as smell amazing. And then we will give them another rest, before cooking them.’
We put the dough through the cutting machine. Then Madame B throws flour onto the work surface with a flourish, and side by side, we stretch out the dough and shape them, thenput them on the baking cloth where they are tucked up next to each other. Madame B reshapes mine, which are not to her exacting standards. When the first lot of baguettes are proved and ready to go into the oven, she shows me how to spray them with water – just a spritz – as they go in.
‘For crunch on the outside,’ she tells me, shutting the ovens carefully, like closing the bedroom door on a sleeping baby. ‘Usually they take around twenty minutes. But I will leave them just a little longer, to get the crust dark,’ she says, setting the timer. She wipes her hands on a tea-towel. ‘Now we will prepare the next batch, while these cook,’ she instructs, ‘and then we will havecafé.’ She claps her still-floury hands.
As we line up the next batch, the smell starting to fill the bakery from the ovens is amazing. So much more enticing than when I was baking alone. It seems to fill the room and wrap around me, like a hug, as we sip our coffee by the worn wooden shop counter, which has marks and dips from the years of people leaning against it. Stopping to pass the time of day when they bought their morning baguette. Taking time to enjoy sharing a conversation, passing on news, asking after loved ones. I’m beginning to see what the mayor means. These things can’t be replaced with a machine.
‘It’s time,’ says Madame B, standing upright, away from the counter.
We walk towards the ovens where the next batch is waiting to go in. She hands me the gloves. ‘You do it! I can’t look! It’s been years! What if I’ve lost my touch?’
And suddenly we’re both nervous. What if they don’t come out as they should? Will she be devastated? Have I unleashed feelings and emotions that should have stayed shut away?
She looks vulnerable, not the hard-faced woman I first met, shooing away the outside world, locked into her apartment with her memories.
I put on the oven gloves.
‘Hurry,vite! You don’t want them to overcook. The crust must be just so …’ She waves at one of the big industrial ovens. ‘Open it,’ she says, standing right behind me.
