‘Avec plaisir, Monsieur.’
I wrap a baguette in a piece of paper, take the euro and let it land in the empty till.
As Laurent turns to leave, I see Geneviève at the door. ‘Bonjour.’
‘Bonjour,’ she replies.
‘Une baguette, s’il vous plaît.’
Suddenly I’m bursting with pride. She’s come to buy my bread.
‘I’m sorry I haven’t been before,’ she says. ‘It is a change in routine.’
‘What made you come today?’ I ask.
‘I became an aunt. My brother and his wife have wanted children for a long time. Last night, they had a baby girl. A new life. A new beginning. Life changes and it moves on for all of us. We should embrace change,’ she says. ‘But, of course, change comes at a different pace for everyone, like grief, like celebrating life.’ She looks out of the doorway onto the square.
I hand over the baguette and she gives me the euro. I put it into the till to join the other, smiling. She has no idea how much this means to me. Or maybe she does.
I stand at the door and watch her leave as the other women gather around the vending machine, waiting for Claude to arrive and fill it. Despite my best efforts to spread the word that my shop is open, and despite some of them having tasted the bread, I still can’t get them to change their routine. Not yet. Maybe never. To them I am just a British woman trying to be a baker who won’t be here for long. And if Claude takes away his machine, they will have nothing.
Even if I can get them through the front door, will that be enough to keep the place going? It’s been three weeks since we opened with Madame B’s bread on 14 July – a day of liberty, resistance and equality. ‘A day to celebrate the French spirit,’ Madame B told me as we opened the doors. But resistance and French spirit are running thin here at theboulangerie. I need a miracle.
At the end of lunchtime I close the door and turn over the‘Fermé’sign, with a tinkle from the bell.
I gather up the leftover baguettes into a basket. I lock up the shop and join Laurent for a coffee. Then we share lunch, handing out to the three men the bread we haven’t sold. It’s that or throw it away. They seem grateful, taking the baguettes straight home, instead of buying them from the vending machine they’ve been sent to use.
But now, as days pass, it has been four whole weeks, and I’m clearing away the plates and cups from our early-morning breakfast, wondering how to tell Madame B that we can’t go on. We can’t keep opening the door when no one other than Laurent and Geneviève are coming in. We’ve given it a really good shot, but I have just over two weeks left to prove why I should be allowed to stay. Theboulangerieis alive, but I know that, really, we have come to the end of the road. We tried. But we can’t keep baking bread that no one buys, that I’m giving away come lunchtime. Every morning they line up at the vendingmachine to buy their bread, none of them, other than Geneviève, prepared to break rank and give the newboulangeriea chance.
But this morning something different happens. The bell above the door rings, surprising us. It’s too early for Laurent. Even for Geneviève.
‘I’ll go,’ I say, propping up my broom by the big dough-mixer I’ve already cleaned.
There, standing in the doorway, small and neat and in low court shoes, is the wife of Gilles from thetabac.
I take a deep breath, wondering whether I’m about to get the sharp end of her tongue again. I’m ready for her accusations, and as she looks around the inside of the bakery, her eyes narrow. ‘Is it true?’ she asks.
‘Look, I’m not sure what you think is going on here but …’
‘Is it true that the bread my husband has been bringing home every day at lunchtimes isn’t from the machine? It’s from here?’
Part of me wants to breathe a sigh of relief, but I’m unsure of how she feels about it. I lift my chin, as she does. I know Madame B, in the back room, is watching from the shadows.
‘Why do you ask?’ I say. Is she about to tell me to stop serving him? That I’m not wanted around here?
She looks back at me, then says, ‘It’s different. Better, much better.’
My heart slows and I gain confidence, like an oven beginning to warm in the early morning. ‘If it has a shine and a crunch, and makes you want more,’ I assert, ‘then, yes, I’d say it’s from here.’
Her shoulders drop and the tension visibly disappears from them. ‘Merci. And I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have been so outspoken the other day. Or offended you. He brought the bread back to the house. Insisted I try it. Most insistent, in fact. And, well, I haven’t enjoyed a meal with my husband like that in years,’ she says. ‘It was like old times. And the bread tasted just like it used to taste.’
‘I’m using local flour, direct from the mill,’ I say. ‘The same ingredients. The same family farms supplying the wheat. The same family recipe.’
‘But the knowledge, thesavoir faire,’ she adds, with suspicion, ‘how did you know? You are a cake-maker from theUK.’
‘You’re right,’ I reply, ‘and I have a lot to learn. I’m still learning. Maybe that’s the thing about when you get to this stage in life – it’s not about what you already know but what you’re prepared to learn. And I have an excellentprofesseur.’
I step aside from the doorway into the bakery where Madame B is standing, her white hair up in its usual soft quiff, her nails their trademark red, but her cheeks and apron are covered with flour.
