The next morning, I’m up and ready to drive to one of the smallvillages. I know, if I leave early enough, I should get there ahead of Claude. Once the loaves are out of the oven, I load them into my basket and I’m off, out of the village and down to the main road. It’s warm already, and there are plenty of bees in the hedgerows bordering the narrow country lane.
I’m concentrating hard, counting up the number of baguettes I need to sell over the next fortnight, to prove my profits to the mayor, when I hear a car travelling up quickly behind me. Too quickly, I think. There’s a blind corner coming up. I move out into the road, just enough to ensure the idiot driver doesn’t try to overtake me on the bend.
I hear the engine revving, then the familiar beeping, and know exactly who it is. My jaw tightens and my foot pushes a little harder to the floor. I see him edging closer to me in my rear-view mirror, as is the bend in the road. Claude’s edging out as if to overtake, and I move over to stop him. The village is just around the corner. There is a chance I could still make it there first, if I can get the baguettes out quicker than he can empty and reload the vending machine.
Suddenly he swings out ahead of an oncoming car, then back onto my side of the road, cutting right in front of me. I have to swerve violently, straight into the ditch, with a bump, bump, bump and a thump as the front end of my car slams into the ground. I catapult forward, then back – shocked, but saved by my seatbelt – followed by a shower of baguettes from the back seat.
My heart hammers. I sit there for a moment, working out if I’m injured, as the van speeds off in a cloud of exhaust fumes. I take a deep breath. I’m not hurt – my pride is wounded more than anything else. I push open the car door and climb out, staring at the white van disappearing into the distance. Frustration and fury bubble inside me. I reach back into the car and gather up the baguettes, straightening some and placingthem back in the basket. Only a couple are bent and broken. I still have plenty to sell, except it’s too late – Claude will have beaten me to the market and probably told the waiting queue that I won’t be coming today. I look at my dented bumper and wonder how to reverse out of the ditch, with thorns and prickles scratching and stinging my ankles.
My phone pings with a message. There are two.
One is from Pete, asking how things are.
The other is from Annie’s husband, telling me she’s received all my messages, and he’s been reading them to her. She’s too weak to reply just now, but is loving hearing all about my adventure. He thanks me for providing them with a little escape from what’s going on.
Angry tears fill my eyes. I get back in the car, grab the ignition key and try starting the engine, hitting the accelerator with force. It roars into life. I shove the gearstick into reverse, but the wheels spin, showering dust from the ditch. I try again, harder, but they spin until the engine splutters and cuts out.
‘Damn!’ I say angrily, getting out of the car and slamming the door, fuelled by frustration and fury as I process Annie’s news. I hear a tractor coming down the lane and it stops beside me. It’s Hubert, one of thetabac’s regular customers.
‘Bonjour, Madame.’
‘Bonjour, Monsieur.’ I manage to hang on to my manners even in times of trouble, I think, and smile to myself. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Helping my brother-in-law with some farm work,’ You have a problem?’ he asks, in stilted English.
‘You could say that. Claude ran me off the road. He doesn’t want me to sell at the market today … or any other day,’ I explain, my voice more high-pitched, almost hysterical, because this is all madness. ‘I had to get there before him, to sell my bread, but he’ll beat me now, so I may as well go home.’
Hubert looks at me. ‘Maybe he has beaten you to the next town,’ he nods straight ahead, ‘but not to the one after that. They have a market today too. Claude will be going there afterwards.’ He grins. ‘We can beat him!’
I laugh, and shake my head. ‘No, my car is stuck.’
‘We will come back for the car and tow it. First, we will take the tractor,’ he says, tapping the steering wheel. ‘How do you say? Across the country! He won’t beat us then. You have bread to sell. We need you in our village. I need your bread … and your Sandwich of Victoria!’
I laugh, but little tears well in my eyes and I’m not sure if they’re for me, Annie or his kindness. A feeling of belonging has come over me like I’ve never experienced before.
‘Come,’ he says, offering a hand to me.
I can’t quite believe I’m doing this, but I hold up the basket of bread, which he takes from me. Then he puts out his hand again and hauls me into the cab to sit beside him. Cross-country it is!
‘Prêt?’ he asks.
I’m not ready for any of this, but I’ll be messaging Annie all about it when I get back.
‘Why not?’ I say, laughing. ‘Pourquoi pas?I’m ready.’
And with that, we’re bumping across the fields to the next town but one, where there is a queue by the vending machine. Hubert gets down from his tractor cab and explains to those waiting that this is the bread being sold today and he can personally recommend it, along with all his neighbours in the village where it comes from. It’s made with the flour from the old mill there, he tells them, by a baker who has come out of retirement to give the village its soul back.
The baguettes are sold in minutes and the queue disappears.
We’re laughing as we set off for home, passing a bemused Claude, who had just arrived in the square to find his regular customers leaving with their baguettes in hand. But thesebaguettes bear the signature of a different baker from him. These baguettes are made with love by Madame B.
Back at the village, I gather along with Laurent, Hubert, Gilles and Eric, Béatrice’s husband, at thetabac. Madame B and Bibi come to join us, too. She has made more bread and I explain how Hubert came to my rescue as we hand round freshly baked, filled baguettes,jambon-beurreandtomate et Camembert.
Laurent fills a carafe with wine and puts it on the bar. Everyone takes a glass and raises it to ‘le baguette’. And when we’ve explained our escapade and laughed all over again, everyone leaves for home. Madame B tells me she has an old bicycle that she will get out for me to use while my car is being fixed.
‘Merci, Hubert,’ I say.
‘De rien,’ he says. ‘And now you will stay open, yes?’
