Chapter 8
I leave the mayor’s office and return to the mill on foot, letting the warm sunshine soothe my soul as I wonder where to start now I’m here, with the keys in my hand and my documentation for my visa on the mayor’s desk.
Scrubbing away the graffiti and painting the walls is probably as good a place as any.
The front door needs washing and painting, as do the shutters.
There’s plenty of rubbish to get rid of.
People seem to have dumped stuff there, like fly-tipping.
Or maybe there were squatters. Once the rubbish has been cleared I can clean the floors and start painting the walls. I just hope they won’t need plastering.
It’s a ten-minute walk from the village to the mill, down the single-track lane. Just enough to stretch my legs, enjoy the sounds and smells around me and let go of the mayor’s insistence that I take over the village bakery. That is way out of my league, and not what I came here to do.
I reach the end of the drive and stand by the listing gates to the mill. A car is parked next to the piggery, the boot open, a small figure standing over it. My heart races. I’m not expecting anyone.
I take a few steps down the dusty drive, tentatively approaching the back of the person in green camouflage trousers, sleeveless jacket and khaki bucket hat.
‘ All?, bonjour ?’
The figure turns to me and I’m surprised to see a woman, slight, with a beautiful clear complexion under the bucket hat, folded back at the front to show neatly shaped eyebrows and high cheekbones, dark hair and eyes.
She’s probably about my age and, if anything, the khaki camouflage outfit adds to her seemingly natural attractiveness.
She smiles, her face even more attractive now under the brim of the hat, which is decorated with brightly coloured feathers and hooks.
‘ Bonjour ,’ she says, reaching into the boot of her car.
For a moment, I pause. I don’t know who she is, or why she’s parked on my drive. She pulls out a long bag, which I can only assume contains some sort of weapon.
I summon my courage, which is trying to leave, and wonder what’s happening at home, where I know who’s going to call and when, and no one parks on my drive without my knowing about it.
Where there is always tea in the caddy, a supermarket down the road and a batch of flapjacks in the cake tin on a Friday for the weekend, in case any of the children pop over.
But here it’s different. It’s new. And that’s what I wanted, I remind myself.
‘Can I help you?’ I ask.
The woman shakes her head. ‘ Non, merci .’ She smiles again and unzips the bag. I hold my breath, my mind going into overdrive. What if she’s been sent to warn me off, that the mill was ‘promised to someone else’, like I heard in the mayor’s office?
‘Look, it might be a surprise that I’m here, and that someone else may have been interested in the old mill, but … I didn’t know that when I bought it.’
‘Ah. So it’s you who has bought it. I heard someone had,’ she says in English.
She still doesn’t clarify why she’s parked on the drive or what she intends to do with the weapon bag she’s carrying.
‘I had no idea. I saw the place was for sale, contacted the agent and bought it. I didn’t realise …’
‘It’s good it’s going to be restored.’ She unzips the bag and slides it off to reveal a fishing rod. I feel a rush of relief. Of course it’s a fishing rod! What was I thinking? I must try to calm down. This woman is just fishing!
Despite that, the words of the mayor come back to me: It’s a lonely place for a woman on her own.
I look back at the old mill. What on earth have I taken on? It’s a lot for one person to get this place up and running as I want it to be. Was it all a fantasy, a rush of euphoria after the treatment? Thinking I can shoulder anything? Quite possibly, yes.
I turn my attention back to the woman and the fishing rod. ‘So, can I help you?’ I say politely.
‘No, thank you. I’m just going to fish. In the lake. We always park here.’
‘Ah.’ Quite a few habits must have been created while the mill was empty.
‘The lake is owned by the commune. We come here to fish, talk, clear our minds …’ She smiles. ‘Would you like to join us?’
‘No, thank you.’ I reply. ‘I’m not one for fishing.’
‘Well, if you ever change your mind …’ she says.
‘Thank you, but I have work to do.’ I point at the mill. ‘I have to clean and decorate it, get rid of the graffiti, make it more homely.’
‘And you’re going to live in it?’ she says.
‘Yes. And open it as a salon de thé ,’ I say, feeling happier talking about my plans.
‘A salon de thé ? Interesting,’ she says.
‘For local people, walkers, and people driving out to see the lake,’ I say.
‘Well, bonne chance ,’ she says, and I have a feeling she thinks I’m going to need it.
I follow her towards the precarious slope at the side of the mill, then to the front door, and am soon snagged in the brambles again.
‘Ouch!’
‘Oh!’ She turns back to me and points. ‘No, follow me. Always take the right-hand side up the slope and hold the tree branch here. It’s much easier.’
I follow her instructions. It is indeed a much better pathway up the side onto the green at the front of the mill, if not the most direct. ‘ Merci .’
‘ De rien ,’ she says politely, and carries on walking around the side of the lake, picking her way past the shrubs and over the rocks towards a low, flat rock protruding from the bank beyond a clump of yellow gorse.
I look out at the lake again – I could stand and watch it for hours, but I have work to do, so I turn towards the green front door.
As I let myself into the cool, dark room, I hear other cars pulling up, and women’s voices, greeting each other.
The sound of their cheerfulness makes me smile.
Here’s hoping they may come to the salon de thé when it’s up and running, rather than just using my drive for parking.
I glance out of the open door, across the lake, hoping to catch sight of the kingfishers, but they’re not around. They, too, must be getting on with their jobs in something near paradise.
I grab my cleaning tools, which I bought from Intermarché.
They’ve been sitting in my car for the last few weeks, ready to tackle this job.
I make for the big room upstairs, carrying my mop and bucket, broom, dustpan and brush, and throw open the windows.
I can see the women at the edge of the lake.
Some are being helped by the one I met. Others are sitting side by side on small stools or chairs, their lines in the water, talking intently.
Others are laughing, sharing bread and cheese …
Bottles of water and wine are on a camping table in the shadows of the trees, and I can’t help but feel rather envious of the camaraderie they share as I listen to their soft laughter rippling across the water.
It’s much like the close friendship I share with Annie, both knowing the rollercoaster of emotions we experienced from our diagnosis and needing to be positive even when it didn’t feel positive for us and our families.
I send Annie another photograph and tell her she’ll soon be sitting at the lakeside too, and how does she fancy trying her hand at fishing? She sends back a laughing face.
I sweep, mop, and scrub at the graffiti on the walls.
I think I’m getting somewhere when I hear a small cheer from the ladies at the lakeside and go to the window to see them land a fish in a bucket and congratulate the woman holding it as if she’s found the very meaning of life.
Maybe she has. She’s found a purpose, and that’s what it’s all about, I think, whether it’s landing a fish, reading a book or cleaning an old building to serve tea and cake.
Finding a purpose, something that makes you happy, is what’s spurred me on recently.
I work away on the walls all afternoon until the sun goes down and I hear the women leave.
I’m alone. I head downstairs and sit by the lake in the silence for a little while with a glass of wine.
Eventually I go inside, closing the door, and make an omelette for my dinner.
Then I head to my living quarters at the back of the building, behind the curtain, for bed.
The following morning, I take my coffee outside and sit on the fallen tree trunk, watching the mist swirl and circle around the lake, where the lily pads float.
I breathe in, hoping to glimpse the kingfishers, but I don’t spot them.
I know they’re around, though. They seem to encourage me that I can do this, little by little.
Today, I plan to take on the ground floor, move the rubbish stacked in the middle of the room, then wash the walls with sugar soap, dust away the cobwebs and mop the floor.
The women are back by the lakeside for Sunday morning and I can hear the church bells ringing from the village, over the fields.
It’s a few hours of hard work, dragging the old blankets, bicycle parts and plastic tubs that were probably fished out of the lake, out of the door, down the slope to outside the cellar door, ready to get to the nearest recycling centre.
I stack the rubbish there too, against one wall.
Once I’ve scrubbed the floors and walls, I can start to paint.
And it should begin to come to life. Then I can do the fun part and visit the brocantes again to furnish the place.
I can’t wait to start filling it with tables and chairs.
I’ve only made one big purchase so far, and that was my mattress.
It’s cosy and comfortable and I have plans to paint the room as soon as I can.
But first I want to see what else needs to happen to get the place into shape for my salon de thé .