Chapter 7
I ’m sitting outside the mayor’s office the following morning after my first night sleeping in the mill.
Although the new mattress was fine and the delivery men did a great job of putting it up on the mezzanine for me, it wasn’t the best night’s sleep I’ve had.
I kept thinking someone was going to appear from the cellar, even though there was no way the trapdoor could open with the sideboard on top of it.
But that didn’t stop me worrying as I tried to get to sleep.
I must have drifted off eventually, as I woke up to a dawn chorus at full volume and sunshine pouring in through the window where the shutters wouldn’t close, reassuring me.
And here I am, dressed to blend in as best I can, with smart trousers, a blue-and-cream-striped top and a scarf I bought at one of the weekly markets, making me feel French already, if a tiny bit self-conscious.
I’m ready to introduce myself to the mayor.
I know the form. I’ve read enough online group chats over the past eight weeks to know how this is done.
You must tell them who you are and your plans for staying in the town as soon as you arrive, and take a gift.
The gift is very important – and is usually whisky.
From inside the office I can hear raised voices and I look to the woman behind the desk, who glances at me while clearly pretending to type: she is also listening intently and, by the look of it, wondering if I am too.
I sit, clutching the bottle of whisky. My notaire suggested the brand.
In my bag I’ve made a scrapbook to show the mayor, with my ideas and sketches, exactly how I imagine the old mill will look when I open for business.
It’s moments like this, though, when I wish I wasn’t doing it alone.
But this wouldn’t have been Pete’s idea of fun.
He’d’ve hated it. He liked his routines.
His Friday night at the golf club, Sundays at the garden centre, Saturday-night curry.
He was happy where things were familiar.
He was confident and playful but he didn’t find change easy.
Adjusting to the babies was difficult for him, but once new routines had been established, he was happy.
Washing bottles, making them up so there was enough to go through the night.
Laying out school uniforms as the kids got older, always the night before.
Bedtime routines and after-school clubs.
The thought of something totally different would have had him sweating, I think affectionately.
Besides, this is why I’m here: to do things I haven’t done before.
And I’m not ready to run home yet. If I don’t do this, I’ll always be wondering, What if …
? So I’m going to present my ideas to the mayor. What’s the worst that can happen?
I get a ping on my phone. It’s Annie wishing me luck today. I’m waiting in the mayor’s office , I tell her. I’m nervous!
You’ll be fine. You’ve faced worse than this!
You’re right!
I remember sitting in that chair in the hospital, the smell of cleaning fluids and the freshly laundered uniforms of the nurses. How are you feeling today? I ask, knowing it’s a stupid question, but not wanting our text exchanges to be solely about me.
Suddenly the door of the office flies open, banging against the wall. I stuff my phone into my bag and sit up straight, as if I’m preparing for a job interview. I can hear men’s voices.
‘It was too good to turn down,’ I hear, and translate from French to English in my head.
‘It was promised! For the commune! You agreed!’ It’s another voice, deep and full of frustration.
‘The commune has bills to pay. It was needed. I couldn’t say no!’
‘You could! You should have!’
The argument continues and I focus hard to understand the French.
‘This village is dying and you’re letting that happen. You’re letting the people down. Those who worked hard to make it a good place to live. Now we have nothing left and no one here. We even have to rely on a vending machine for bread! It would have my grandfather turning in his grave.’
‘You should have returned earlier, then. When you could have helped him.’
There is a silence, and my heart sinks as the tall, broad, now familiar figure of Laurent storms out of the office, slamming the door behind him. He barely stops as he glares at me. I clutch the whisky to my chest, narrowing my eyes and glaring back at him.
The woman on the desk calls after him, half rising from her seat: ‘Laurent!’
He doesn’t stop. He marches out of the main doors, which clatter on their hinges as he goes. It’s like I’m in a Wild West saloon in the aftermath of a shoot-out.
The phone on the receptionist’s desk rings. The woman answers. She looks at me, purses her lips, then replaces the receiver. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says, without a trace of apology, ‘the mayor is unavailable today,’
‘But I have an appointment,’ I say. I know I’m being fobbed off.
‘He has had to rearrange. He apologises,’ she says, dismissing me with a wave of her hand and her long, painted nails, ‘but, non , not today.’
I feel my phone vibrate and look down. Annie has sent a smiley face and a thumbs-up. She uses them a lot because she doesn’t always have the energy to type more. I touch the screen. I’m doing this because I have been given the chance.
‘I don’t have time to rearrange. I have plans, and little time to start on them,’ I say.
I need my project to be approved as quickly as possible so that I can get my visa to stay.
Suddenly I feel emboldened, not ready to be told ‘ non ’ before I’ve even begun.
There’s a firmness in my voice I haven’t heard before.
I stand up and lift my head and chin. ‘I have only four weeks left of my ninety allowed days here, so it’s really important I see the mayor today. As arranged.’
She’s surprised, clearly unused to being challenged.
I’ve been through a lot to get here, Annie has reminded me of that, and I’m not going to let Laurent from the tabac or the mayor changing his mind about our meeting stop me. This is my new start. I’ve earned it and I need it to happen now.
‘This way for the mayor?’ I ask, and point to his door.
‘ Oui, mais …’ She puts out her hand to stop me but I carry on anyway. As Annie says, we’ve faced worse. Suddenly, when reminded that I might not have been here today if the dice hadn’t rolled in my favour, I’m feeling much braver than the old me would ever have been.
I march into the mayor’s office to find him holding a mobile phone to his ear.
He is short and plump, wearing an ill-fitting jacket.
He pulls the phone away but still holds it up.
‘I’m sorry, I have some business to attend to,’ he says, first in French, then repeats in English to be sure I understand, holding up his free hand, a universal gesture of ‘ non ’ I’m coming to realise.
‘Yes.’ I take a deep breath, trying to channel my inner Emily in Paris even though she’s half my age.
‘You have business with me.’ I place the bottle on the desk in front of him.
‘A gift,’ I say, raising an eyebrow at this ridiculous ritual.
It’s a tax, that’s all. Keeping the mayor sweet and in whisky.
He picks up the bottle and gives the smallest of nods before placing it on his side of the desk and sits, gesturing for me to do the same in the seat opposite.
He nods slowly, then answers in French, and before I have time to translate, repeats it in English.
‘So, it is you that has bought le moulin . You are here with a family?’ It’s more of a statement than a question.
I shake my head. ‘No, just me.’
He looks at me as if it’s British humour, waiting for me to say I’m joking. When I remain silent he finally says, ‘An old mill, in the middle of practically nowhere.’ He frowns. ‘In our quiet village? It’s a lonely place for a woman on her own. Why would you do that?’ he snorts.
My mouth is dry but I lift my chin again. ‘I have plans for the place. I want to turn it into a salon de thé , for local people and passing tourists,’ I say, pulling out my notebook. ‘I have lots of ideas.’
‘A salon de thé ?’
‘Yes.’ I focus on my notebook. ‘I’ll be serving afternoon tea, cakes, patisseries for local people, walkers or holidaymakers in the area.’
He doesn’t look at the notebook but at me. ‘So, you are a baker?’ he says, tilting his head.
‘Yes … well, yes,’ I say, more firmly the second time.
‘I learnt during the Covid lockdowns and then …’ I stop.
He doesn’t need to know that baking kept me going through all of my treatment.
That it was something else to think about – my safe place when the dread reared its head.
It was my sanctuary, considering flavours and designs, learning from mistakes and wanting to get better.
And it helped me learn to enjoy eating again.
Small bites of sweet comfort. ‘Yes, I am a baker,’ I say confidently.
He says thoughtfully, ‘We need a baker in the village.’
‘Well, that’s good for both of us, then.’ I give a sigh of relief.
‘For our boulangerie .’ He fixes me with a stare.
‘Oh, I’m not that type of baker … I mean, I bake cakes.’
But he doesn’t hear me. ‘Our village has no bakery. Just a machine,’ he says with disgust. ‘What is a town or a village without a bakery?’ He throws out an arm, tears in his eyes. ‘It is like a village without a soul.’ And I wonder if the tears are about to spill.
‘Erm, well, you could speak to the baker … the one I met from the next village. Claude? Maybe get him to supply to the shop. Then you will have your boulangerie back,’ I say brightly.
‘Oh, no,’ says the mayor vehemently, pointing his short, fat finger towards the window and the village square.
‘For a boulangerie , the bread must be baked on site, in the bakery’s kitchen.
’ He points down and presses his fingertip to the desk.
‘It needs to be baked in the village. The bread sold there must be made there. We need someone who will bake in the boulangerie .’ He eyes me again.
‘I’m afraid that’s not me,’ I say. ‘I’m just a home cook who enjoys baking cakes. I’m not a professional bread-maker. As I say, I’m here to set up a tearoom, for local people and anyone who visits the lake at weekends.’
For a moment he says nothing. Then: ‘And for that you will need a visa, to stay and work here?’ He raises an eyebrow.
‘Yes,’ I say, slowly and carefully. ‘Which is why I am here, visiting you. And praying you approve of my plans so my visa will be granted. As I say, I’ll be hoping to open as soon as all my official paperwork is in order.’
‘Ah, yes, your paperwork.’
I nod. ‘I’ve done my homework. I know what I need.’ I put my large handbag on the desk and reach into it.
He leans on his elbow. ‘You’ll need to provide all your documentation.’
I lift the file from my bag and put it onto the desk. ‘I have it all here.’
He regards the file but doesn’t reach for it. ‘Visas can be very hard to get,’ he says slowly, holding my gaze. ‘You can apply,’ he shrugs, ‘and hopefully receive a year’s right to stay. To remain here longer, your business needs to be making a profit.’
I swallow, but hold my nerve. ‘Yes, I know. I plan to work hard to get the moulin on the map and known for its afternoon teas.’ If I don’t get my visa, I have no idea what I’ll do.
I could end up with Pete, sleeping on the sofa.
‘I have all the paperwork right here.’ Not to mention the bottle of expensive whisky I’ve bought him.
‘And I’m hoping I can bring something to the village.
A business to attract more visitors. I mean isn’t that what all villages need to keep them going?
More people coming to visit, to spend money in the area.
And for locals to spend in their own village rather than going elsewhere. ’
‘You’re right. We do need people with your skills here,’ he agrees. ‘Otherwise the village will die. Is dying,’ he says quietly. ‘They’ll put a road through it and no one will even notice we were once a community.’
‘Surely not …’
‘It all began with those damn vending machines!’ He bangs his fist on the table.
‘Well, I’ll admit, I did struggle with it at first, but …’ and I remember how kind Claude was, handing me a fresh baguette, welcoming me.
‘Vending machines, pah! And why should one bakery serve four villages with bread?’ He throws up his hands.
‘Well, times change.’ I try to calm things a little. ‘We all have to move on.’
He gazes at me as if I’ve said something ridiculous. ‘Why?’ he says, his hands up again. ‘Why do they have to move on? Everyone wants to move on, these days. What is wrong with how things were?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘But I’m not a baker, not like that. Non, merci . As I say, I’m not here to open a bakery. I’ve bought the old mill to make it into a salon de thé .’
‘But for that you need a visa to stay,’ he repeats, and seems to be thinking hard.
‘Yes, and, as I said, I have all the paperwork for that.’ I gesture at the file.
‘It’s a very good shop, the boulangerie . It served the community well for many years.’
I sigh. He’s persistent, I’ll give him that. ‘And where is the baker now?’
‘He left. Very soon after the miller at the old mill died. He just closed up, handed back the keys and left. No reason. There are other mills he could have got flour from, but he just said it was time to go. A few have tried to open it, but they leave as soon as they get here. The shop has been empty for …’ he thinks ‘… it must be nearly five years now. Once upon a time this village provided everything we needed. A bakery, a shop, a bar and bistro, even a school. Soon there will be nothing left. Why can’t we be like other villages with a shop, a pizzeria even? We have nothing!’
‘Well,’ I give a little cough, ‘apart from a salon de thé .’ I give a light laugh.
‘Think about it. The boulangerie . It could work for us all if you were to take it over,’ he says with a nod, letting me know our meeting is now over.
‘It’s very kind but, really, it’s just me. I definitely can’t take that on as well. I’m just here for the old mill and my salon de thé .’
And with that I get up to leave, glad that I’ve stood my ground. Hoping I’ve done enough to make him see how my plan would work.