Chapter 3
Chapter Three
I gingerly made my way down the stairs for a quarter to seven.
Madame Moreau was already piling every size and shape of baguette, loaf and roll into wicker baskets behind the counters.
The smell was intoxicating. The warm loaves filled the air with a slightly sweet and robustly fragrant scent, like a warm, doughy hug.
I ignored my salivating mouth and straightened my dress before I greeted Madame Moreau.
‘Tiens,’ was all she said, handing me a navy gingham apron.
‘Merci,’ I replied chirpily, ignoring her taciturn, monosyllabic style.
‘Madame Moreau, I was wondering if I would be able to see the ovens at some stage … you know, see where all the magic happens?’ I’m not sure why, but I used jazz hands to convey my excitement.
The look I received in return could only be described as disdain mixed with a good dollop of annoyance.
‘You ’ave no business going downstairs, ever.’
I was quite shocked to hear her reply in English. I knew she spoke some English, the ad in the paper had said so, when it explained how popular Compiègne was among tourists. But choosing that statement as her first in my own language made it clear she meant it to be understood. No going downstairs.
‘Of course, no problem. I just thought it might be nice to?—’
‘Non!’ she bellowed, her dark eyes fixing me with a stare that turned my blood cold.
‘Non, OK, I got it,’ I said, like a sulky child.
‘écoutez, édith,’ she began in a more conciliatory tone, ‘ze Boulanger, ’e is très particular about who is going in his kitchen, hein? Is better if you are ’ere to manage ze shop, non?’ She nodded.
Unfortunately, Francophiles have no ‘th’ in their language and so I was still hung up on the fact that she had just pronounced me ‘édeet’.
‘édith, vous comprenez?’
‘Sorry? Oh, yes, right, got it. Grumpy baker, do not disturb,’ I spoke slowly as I copied the words in my notebook.
‘What is zis?’ Madame Moreau asked, looking curiously at my notebook.
‘Well, it’s where I keep my notes. You see I like to write everything down so if I forget anything, I can refer to it, um, here.’ Her bemused look was quite confusing. I mean what did the old curmudgeon want? I was being professional. ‘And for orders, people will be placing orders, won’t they?’
At this she began to grin, a not altogether unpleasant grin, but it held the kind of mischief that made me nervous.
‘Ma pauvre, you will ’ave leetle time for writing notes,’ she cackled and continued stacking bread into baskets.
I couldn’t imagine how a little bakery in a small provincial town would be overrun with customers, but I decided to keep my thoughts to myself.
Just then Manu appeared at the front door looking far more alert and groomed than he had the previous evening.
After a chorus of bonjours, he set about loading boxes of bread on a small scooter just outside in a tower that seemed to defy gravity.
Seeing my inquisitive glance, Madame Moreau informed me that Manu was in charge of deliveries to local hotels and restaurants.
Despite the old-fashioned look of the place, their business seemed to be organised and profitable enough to keep at least four employees in earnings.
She gave me my first job of filling the counter window to the side of the serving counter full of mouth-watering patisseries.
First I began with some classic pains au chocolat and croissants, which sat in large baskets on top.
Then I placed two large, round flans – bright and yellow like the sun – on the bottom shelf at the front along with a tarte Tatin.
The middle shelf was for savouries such as croque-madame and croque-monsieur and pizza cut into squares, which left the top shelf for tempting treats like eclairs filled with fresh cream, fruit tarts glazed with apricot syrup, and not forgetting those little scallop-shaped madeleines.
Everything looked so wonderfully appealing; I could understand the old adage of eating with your eyes.
At 7am sharp, Madame Moreau turned the Ouvert sign over and opened the bakery for business.
To my surprise, there were a handful of customers already standing by the door and she greeted them with an easy charm I wouldn’t have thought possible a moment before.
I braced myself for my first French customer, mildly confident that I had enough mastery of the basics to see myself through.
Wrong! The first gentleman to approach the counter gave his order so quickly that all I heard was ‘Bonjour’ but nothing else.
‘Um, pardonnez-moi?’ was all I could manage in a voice that sounded embarrassingly pathetic to my own ears.
‘Je prends deux croissants et une baguette, s’il vous pla?t,’ he repeated, but he may as well have not bothered.
I was painfully unprepared for the speed at which the customers spoke, their regional accent or their slang.
For the first time, and unfortunately with an audience, I realised that this had been a big mistake.
Huge. I wanted to just run out of there and never look back.
Madame Moreau began introducing me to her patrons as ‘Edeet from England’. On any other occasion that slip-up would have warranted a very patriotic comeback, but I was floundering and she was offering me a lifeline.
The man, who wore an overcoat and a chapeau that made him look like a character from a detective movie, reached up and raised his hat a fraction.
‘Very nice to meet you, Edith,’ he said, pronouncing my name correctly.
He had kind and intelligent eyes and I gave him a grateful smile.
‘Monsieur Legrand est un avocat,’ Madame Moreau explained.
‘Avocat, avocat…’ I echoed, hoping that the meaning would reveal itself with repetition.
‘A lawyer,’ he offered helpfully.
‘Oh, of course, I knew that one,’ I said, as though this were a gameshow.
Another gentlemanly tip of his hat and he moved to the left, making way for the next in a line of customers that was now reaching out past the front door.
Rather than helping, I seemed to be slowing everything down.
In the end, we worked out that simply pointing was the best means of communication until my French improved and for the most part, it began to work out quite well.
La Boulangerie et Patisserie de Compiègne had a steady flow of customers all through the morning.
I had not yet been entrusted with the coffee machine, but I was now making short work of the cash register that mercifully resembled a straightforward calculator.
Our own lunchtime finally arrived at noon, when I was informed that the bakery closed from twelve noon to 2pm daily.
It seemed a little old-fashioned, but Manu told me that it was a tradition Madame Moreau held fast to.
At first I felt a little dismayed at having to spend two hours in my cramped attic alone, but on balance I figured that a snack and a little nap might just be ideal.
I had lost my appetite for most things and when I was at home, I often ended up eating cereal for lunch and dinner.
That was when it dawned on me that I didn’t even have cereal here.
My little kitchenette cupboards were almost entirely bare, so I grabbed my coat and started off down the road in search of a supermarché.
The afternoon had turned into one of those bright spring days where it almost dazzles the eyes to look up.
All I had seen of the town so far was the brisk walk from the station to the bakery, which was a muddled nighttime view of cobbled streets, closed shutters and little else.
But walking out onto the street in the daylight lifted my heart in a way I didn’t think possible.
It felt like being transported onto a movie set; every clichéd idea I had about a French town was here.
Now, the natives weren’t wearing berets or striped tops with garlic tied around their necks, but they just had an air of self-importance and sophistication.
And even though the women were dressed quite casually and not in haute couture, their sense of style truly set them apart from their European cousins.
However, the smoking rate, especially among the teenagers, was alarming.
‘Think of your teeth!’ I wanted to shout at the younger girls, but then I vaguely remembered what it was like to be so young that you felt invincible and I kept my advice to myself.
Not to be outdone in the fashion stakes, I pulled the collar of my expensive cream coat up against the chilly breeze and set off once again.
Our cobbled street was home to a host of other distinctively French establishments.
A traditional crêperie, with a similar timber facade to the bakery, held an enviable position on the corner of three streets, followed by a tabac (or a newsagents for all intents and purposes) and a salon de thé, or a tea room.
Looking at this street, it was easy to imagine that the French had nothing better to do than sit around indulging their appetites.
However, it seemed that we were not the only ones taking a long lunch – everywhere was shut.
It was remarkable to see how our cultures differed – these kinds of shenanigans would be unthinkable back home.
I wandered along, taking turns here and there, passing a picture-postcard scene of a group of old men playing boules or pétanque in a beautiful park named Parc de Songeons.
Everything had such a languid feel to it, the trees swaying in the breeze, the men having a good-natured argument about whose ball was the biggest, or the closest probably.
Turning right past the river, I found myself in the more modern part of the town where brasseries buzzed with patrons sitting outside, soaking up the atmosphere.
It was like coming out of a time warp to see banks, offices and bustling traffic, and for some reason, it felt a little overwhelming.
The smart pale-stone facades with white shutters seemed full of their own importance and a little too perfect.
I found a Monoprix supermarket and was completely spoiled for choice when it came to fresh produce like cheese and fruit, but other staples were a little more difficult to track down.
The closest thing I could get to proper tea was English breakfast tea and the milk situation was so confusing, I ended up leaving without any.
I worked my way back to the Rue de Paris and had a look at the curious exterior door on the eastern side of the building that led to the basement where the ovens were.
The street was on a slope at the gable end, so while the shop was at street level at the front and had three storeys, it looked much larger at the side with the basement door in view.
The door was painted a deep blue and featured a decorative brass handle that must have been an antique.
It looked as though no one had ever used that entrance and I began to wonder how on earth ingredients got in or bread got out.
Surely everything didn’t go through the shop?
I glanced surreptitiously up and down the lane before reaching out to turn the handle.
I didn’t know why I was doing it, I was sure it would be locked, but to my surprise it yielded easily.
I looked around me again, unable to shake the feeling that I was being watched.
I had barely opened the door a crack, when it slammed shut again, as though a gust of wind had pulled it back from the inside.
I reached for the handle once again, only this time it was jammed shut and no amount of jiggling would open it.