Chapter 20
A s I hear the women leaving for the day, I stay put in my bedroom until the final car has driven off.
I came here to reinvent myself, to stop feeling invisible, and all I’ve done is make myself stick out like a sore thumb.
I climb down the few steps from my bedroom and look at some of the pencil drawings here; drawings on the wall of Punch and Judy faces and, like in the cellar, lists of orders, clearly for sacks of flour, but tucked in a corner is a broken heart, with a name next to it on the crumbling plaster.
I can’t quite decipher what it says, but make out the word ‘ bijou ’, meaning jewel, a term of endearment.
There was clearly a love story here at one time, and I wish I knew more of it.
I go to the kitchen, make a cup of tea, then walk outside and watch the goldfinches on the lawn.
There are dandelion seeds, like fairies, floating on the breeze, and I walk around the edge of the lake in the setting sun.
Something about this place keeps drawing me back, making me want to stay, and to try harder rather than just chucking it all in.
And just when I need them, the kingfishers turn up.
The following morning, before daybreak, I’m up and out of bed and heading back to the boulangerie . The little white, brown and black cat is there to greet me, purring as I bend to stroke him. It’s nice to feel welcomed, even if it’s just by a friendly feline.
I let myself in with the key and turn on the lights. A strong wind is blowing this morning and the door slams behind me. I wait to hear banging from the apartment above. And it comes.
Thump, thump, thump! ‘Be quiet! People are trying to sleep!’
I sigh, head to the kitchen and turn on the ovens.
Then I go back outside and put down some more water in a dish for the cat, making sure the door doesn’t bang this time.
Back in the kitchen, I make up the dough, but this time with some adjustments, maybe more salt, more proving time … I’m determined to get it right.
Hours later, I’ve tried to make it lighter, darker, added more salt before the yeast, more water … but every batch has been a disaster. I’m not even going to bother getting someone to taste them. I throw them all straight into the bin and stare at the mound of burnt, undercooked, floppy baguettes.
I go to the table in the window and sit. I wipe my hands over my forehead and realise I’m covered in flour. I wipe my hands on a tea-towel and decide to take a breather outside. I make coffee in the scullery from the kettle there and walk out of the front door, clutching my mug.
I couldn’t have timed it better, or worse, as I watch the short queue of women buying bread from the vending machine, then bidding each other goodbye and hurrying home.
No one is waiting to chat, just putting their coins into the machine, picking up their baguettes and leaving.
The little cat weaves itself around my legs, purring.
And once again I’m grateful for the uncomplicated company.
Above me, Edith Piaf’s voice is floating out from what sounds like a vinyl record player.
I hum along to the song as I wander back to the boulangerie and put down my empty cup.
A thought occurs to me. I go back outside and put a foot on the steps of the staircase to the side of the building, then another and another.
I climb to the apartment above and stand in front of the door. Then, with a deep breath, I knock.
Nothing. Just Edith Piaf singing.
I should go. It was a ridiculous idea. But I’ve come this far, I think. I might as well try once more.
I knock again.
Still nothing.
I turn to leave when the music stops. I knock again. This time, the dog barks and very slowly the door opens. The aroma of Gauloises cigarettes and strong coffee pours out to meet me, mixed with very pungent perfume.
‘ Bonjour, Madame ,’ I say, knowing I have to get the etiquette right.
‘ Madame, bonjour . Have you a problem? Why are you knocking on my door? Is this an unarranged visit or is there an emergency that cannot wait?’
‘I need to know more about the boulangerie . About the bread.’
She stares at me. ‘I cannot help you.’
‘But you’ve lived here for years, I gather. You must have an opinion, like everyone else around here, on what type of bread to make. Dark, light, salty?’
‘Why? People always go on about bread … bread, bread, bread …’ She waves her spare hand around, the one that’s not holding the dog.
‘There is a reason no one wants that boulangerie … It will bring you no luck. A big, strong man worked here, making perfect baguettes. But it didn’t bring any happiness to anyone.
Leave the bread to people who know. Stay away from the boulangerie . It’s better that way.’
‘Or maybe someone doesn’t want it to work?’ I think about Claude and his bread machines. She doesn’t respond. ‘Like a bread racket?’
She says nothing and shrugs. ‘You have to offer something different if you want these women to buy from you and not Claude. It’s like changing your doctor …
someone you trust. They need to know you will turn up.
You need to impress them. Why would they choose bread made by a British woman, who isn’t even a trained baker? ’
I look past her and see the small table and chair where she must normally sit, overlooking the square.
I can tell the conversation is over – her tone indicates as much – but I cautiously proceed.
‘You said I needed to offer something different. What did you mean? I need to find out how to make the bread they want to buy. Do you know who can help me? Please.’
‘I’m sorry, I can’t help.’
The dog is squirming under her arm. She goes to shut the door.
‘Okay,’ I say. I’m not going to get any further. ‘I suppose I just wanted to leave my mark. Feel I’ve done something I can be proud of.’ I’m searching for the words about how I feel. How I needed to step outside my comfort zone, take the risk, live the good life.
The door opens again. ‘If you want advice, Madame, try the tabac .’ She juts out her chin and I’ve been dismissed.
The door shuts and I walk down the stairs in the brisk wind, having wasted my time.
The three men at the bar have already given me their opinions and none of it has helped.
My beginner’s luck with the first loaves has run out on me and I have no idea how to get this boulangerie up and running if I can’t make bread.
And judging by the disasters in the bin, I can’t.