Chapter 2
Chapter Two
The sky was completely dark by the time the train pulled into Compiègne station.
I felt tired and hungry as I pulled on my coat and prepared to step once more into the unknown.
Alighting the train, I noticed a young boy of about fifteen sitting on one of the two benches adorning the platform.
He was engrossed in some sort of video game, and only when the wheels of my case announced my presence did he look up from under his hoodie.
‘Pardon, Madame?’ he shouted.
My instincts told me to keep walking, so I pretended I hadn’t heard and continued on my way.
‘Pardon, êtes-vous Madame Lane?’ he persisted, and I stopped and turned round.
‘Oh, yes. I mean, oui. And you are?’
‘Je m’appelle Manu. Madame Moreau m’a envoyé vous chercher.’
‘Oh, bonjour,’ I said, just about catching his rapid-fire French. His name was Manu and it sounded like Madame Moreau had sent him to meet me. Right. Already he had taken the handle of my case and was leaving the station.
‘But, wait, I…’ My words bounced off his heedless back. That was it; I’d had enough. I was tired, hungry and fed up with being treated like an imbecile in this country.
‘Oi, kid, you listen to me, right? I’ve been travelling all day to get here, nearly went down in a thunderstorm in the process, so I think the least you can do is tell me exactly where we are going, instead of herding me there like a lost sheep!
’ There, that felt so good and I was certain that I had left him in no doubt as to the cut of my jib.
He turned casually and simply said, ‘La boulangerie,’ as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, which in fact it was. He gave a little signal with his hand that I should follow and set off once again with my brand-new suitcase rolling behind him.
‘And just so you know, it’s Mademoiselle!’ I finished, determined to have the last word.
I finally caught up with my hooded guide as we entered an old, cobbled street.
The place seemed deserted and a million miles away from my Parisian dream.
Still, it did have an old-world appeal and despite the cold and the dark, I did my utmost to feel optimistic about what lay ahead.
‘A hot cup of tea and everything will seem better,’ I reassured myself.
We walked along by a river lined with benches and manicured trees, and crossed by ornate bridges leading to who knew where.
I couldn’t imagine ever feeling at home or familiar with this place and if I had a dog, I would have told him we weren’t in Kansas anymore.
Turning a corner, I was surprised to see a street full of wooden-frame houses, like something out of Tudor England.
The old section of the town was like a fairy-tale village and I half expected the walls to be made of gingerbread.
Nothing seemed to have a right angle and dormer windows peeped out of crooked roofs with pointy hats on.
‘Ici,’ my guide announced curtly. ‘Here.’
Overhead, I saw a sign – La Boulangerie et Patisserie de Compiègne – while on the corner of the building was a small sign with the street name – Rue de Paris. Oh, how I rued my ignorance.
‘Well, it’s exactly what it says on the tin then; a bakery on the road to Paris.’
‘Comment?’ Manu drawled, as if the effort of speaking was too much of a drain on his time.
‘Nothing, forget it, or what is it again… peu importe?’
Something between a grunt and a sniff was all I got in return.
He had a key and opened the glass-panelled door to the bakery.
I could feel my excitement return at the prospect of seeing my new ‘career’ in France.
At first I noticed the floor tiles – exquisitely ornate and designed in peacock-blue and gold, with hints of bright orange at the centre.
The counter was plain, but functional and of course empty at the end of the day.
The shop was just large enough to accommodate three typically French bistro tables and chairs, all located by the large front window looking onto the street.
A large art nouveau-style mirror with a gilt gold frame took up the entirety of one wall from floor to ceiling, creating the illusion of a grander space.
Sconces lit the honey-coloured walls with a dim light and as my eyes adjusted, I found myself suddenly confronted with a sturdy-looking woman dressed in a black skirt to the knee and a matching cardigan that fought admirably to contain her large bosom.
Grey hair framed a sour face that held the echoes of kindness long since departed.
Despite myself, I instinctively took a step back.
‘Madame Lane,’ she announced in a way that wasn’t really a question or a statement.
‘Mmhmm, je suis, well, it’s Mademoiselle, actually,’ I floundered. Her deep-set brown eyes were formidable, despite her short stature.
‘Venez, je vais vous montrer votre chambre.’
Chambre… Oh, yes, my room. The way she’d said it made it sound like some kind of Victorian boarding house. I was entering my Jane Eyre era.
With that, she padded silently behind the counter to an open doorway and began climbing some rather steep-looking stairs. I turned around to thank Manu, but he had already left.
‘Welcome to France, Edith,’ I muttered, picking up my suitcase.
Following Madame Moreau up the stairs, I juggled unsuccessfully with my suitcase as it banged against the narrow walls and in the end resorted to carrying it over my head.
The stairs took a dangerous ninety-degree turn and then, quite suddenly, I found myself in my studio apartment.
The term attic would have been a generous one in describing my new home.
At the nearest end of the oblong room a daybed sat snugly in front of an unlit stove and to my right was a kitchenette consisting of an electric hob and a sink with a tiny shelf above it.
At the far end of the room stood a giant oak wardrobe taking up far more space than was practical and behind a screen was what I assumed to be the WC.
‘Voilà,’ Madame Moreau announced, evidently impressed by her own lodgings. I was literally speechless, but she took this to mean quiet bliss. With a gruff ‘Bonne nuit,’ and orders to be up for seven, she took her leave and left me to my doll’s house.
I flung my case on the bed and myself along with it, where I sat motionless for a long time.
The wind whistled through the gaps in the eaves and I became alert to every unfamiliar sound – the gurgle of old pipes, a cat meowing on the street outside.
The moon was like a fingernail hanging loose in the sky as I stared out of the little square windowpane.
My phone announced the arrival of a text message, rousing me from my mini coma.
Dad, of course. Checking to see if I got to France in one piece.
I texted him that I had arrived safely and was just settling into my lovely new home.
Somehow, this little fib gave me strength to get back on my feet, unpack and set about making the space my own.
I was used to making the most of small spaces and while I had hoped this journey was leading me to bigger and better things, I assured myself that great things start with small beginnings.
* * *
I had a fitful sleep that night and woke to some strange noises in the building.
I put this down to the creaking timbers and fell back into strange dreams that were vivid and disturbing.
My mother, as always, was there and we were on a ship trying to get somewhere.
At some point I lost her and spent the dream searching frantically over all the decks.
I awoke to the sound of low whimpering, then realised the strangled noise was coming from my throat.
The alarm on my phone rang soon after to announce the dawn of my first morning in Paris.
It was six o’clock and already I could smell the scent of warm bread wafting up the stairs.
It hadn’t occurred to me the night before to ask who or where the baker worked.
Still, today would be my first official working day and I figured I would discover all the inner workings of the place soon enough.
The attic, or the atelier as I chose to call it, to give it a more romantic aesthetic, was bloody freezing.
My nose felt as though it had spent the night at the North Pole, and my toes along with it.
In fact all of my extremities were in serious danger of frostbite.
Insulation was obviously a foreign concept over here, so I set to lighting the little stove with a bundle of wood stored in a basket at its side.
Fifteen minutes later, after filling the room with eye-watering clouds of smoke, I admitted defeat and instead turned on the little portable electric hob to heat my coffee pot and the room.
I danced briskly on the chilly floorboards as I pulled on some woolly tights and a red tartan dress.
Some might say (my father being one of them) that March was perhaps not the ideal time to start a new life abroad, and feeling the chills running down my spine, I had to agree.
But Madame Moreau was quite insistent that she needed an assistant manager to start immediately, which now made me wonder what had happened to the previous one.