CHAPTER 15
The following morning, I check my bank account. I’ve drunk far more coffee than is good for me. One thing I know for sure: I need to get Henri’s bistro bringing in income. I have to get the restaurant back … I have to start cooking again. I haven’t come this far to have it all taken away from me now. I need to fix this. Then I need to fix things with Fabien.
If last evening has shown me anything, it’s that people will come to the table if the food is good and the atmosphere convivial. That’s what Henri’s is all about and I have to make some money to help the harvest to the end. Zacharie can’t just push me out and cut off my income like this.
I text the number on my phone that Zacharie rang me from. I’m presuming it’s his phone. We need to meet and talk, I tell him. 10 a.m. at Henri’s.
A reply pings back. You mean at the restaurant? Because, forgive me if I’m wrong, Henri is dead. I can practically hear the belligerence in the words on the screen and don’t rise to it. We need to find a way to work together, to open the bistro again.
10 a.m., I reply, not getting sucked into anything else.
I dress, lay out breakfast on the terrace, with bread and croissants from the van. Adèle, the baker, asks if there is any news on a service for Henri. I tell her that Henri’s son is here. He’s planning a funeral for Henri, but family only.
‘C’est dommage!’ she tells me. It’s a shame. I agree that it is.
I check in on the pickers and Rhi, telling her I have to go out.
‘Okay,’ she says, this time not as nervous at being left in charge. ‘We’ll be fine.’ The group around the table are tucking into baguette, butter and jam and another cake that Keith made early that morning in the outside kitchen. The smell of freshly cooked cake, sweet and comforting, fills the air and I’ve missed it since Stephanie moved into the unit.
‘You’ll be giving Stephanie a run for her money soon.’ I find myself smiling.
‘What’s this?’ Stephanie arrives with little Louis on her hip. ‘Wow! That smells good!’ she says, leaning over the table. Louis points at the cake.
‘Gateau!’ he says, and Keith puffs up, like a little fat robin in winter showing his full red chest.
‘I’ll be back as soon as I can.’ I pull my shopping basket onto my shoulder, feeling much more like the old me than I have in days. ‘I’ll buy some food for tonight while I’m out. We can decide what to make when I get back. Hopefully with good news!’ And I feel as if everything is about to get back on track. Henri may not be here but we will carry on as if he is. The same for Fabien: I want everything to be back on track for when he gets home. His home as well as mine.
‘Is everything okay?’ Stephanie asks.
‘It will be. Just something I need to sort,’ I say, then kiss her and Louis.
‘Go for it!’ she tells me, as if she’s sensed my mission, then cuts cake for Louis and everyone else at the table as I head out of the door, rubbing Ralph’s head as I leave and telling him to be a good boy. I am going to get Henri’s up and running today if it’s the last thing I do.
My spirits lift even further as I approach the bistro to see the new window being installed and the signwriter’s van parked at the end of the narrow street. ‘Yes!’ I say. Thank God! It’s all going to be okay. The window is going in, the signwriter is here. We can reopen! I’m practically jogging towards the bistro now, eager to be back to normal.
I can see Zacharie standing outside, just like he was when I met him. Hands in his cream trouser pockets, staring at the outside of the building. He doesn’t turn to me when I arrive, hot and out of breath.
‘This is wonderful! You should have called me. I would have been here to meet the glaziers,’ I say, fanning my hot face.
‘It’s all in hand.’ He still doesn’t face me, just watches the men at work on the window. For a moment, I’m distracted by the company name and can’t help but think it wasn’t the one I booked. I must have misunderstood. I decide to take this moment to build some bridges and see if I can get Zacharie on board with inviting Henri’s friends to the funeral.
‘Actually, there was something else …’ It seems like a window of opportunity. A bonding moment, getting Henri’s name back on the bistro window and planning to open again. ‘I wanted to talk to you about Henri’s funeral, or service, whatever it is. People are still asking. I know you said about keeping it small, family only. But it really would help people. Henri was family to a lot of people around here,’ I say, watching his reaction, hoping to have good news for Rhi and for Fabien. I know he’d want to be there, and as soon as we have the date, Fabien will be on his way home.
He says nothing, just stares at the front window and the signwriter at work.
‘Well, as I say, let us know when it is. We’re all keen to give Henri a good send-off. He’s very well thought-of.’ I can’t bring myself to say ‘was well thought-of’. I swallow. ‘It would be very good of you to include us, the community, in it.’
He still doesn’t respond. Slowly he turns towards me. ‘And so, Del,’ the use of my name so pointedly catches me off guard, ‘I am here and you wanted to speak to me. Was that it?’ He seems to smile.
I was ready for battle, but perhaps he’s softened – and we could be on the same page. He’s here having the window fixed and painted, getting ready to reopen, and so am I. Let’s hope.
‘The most important thing is to reopen the bistro. This place brings in a good income. Not massive, but it sustained Henri and me. I know you had a valuation done—’
‘Just for my personal information,’ he cuts me off. ‘The valuation,’ he clarifies.
‘Oh … good.’ I heave a sigh of relief. ‘So, you’re not intending to sell the place.’
‘I’m not, non,’ he confirms, with a brusque nod.
‘Oh, that is good. Bon!’ I gush. ‘I was getting worried, what with you meeting Rhi and asking for the ashes yesterday, but I’m guessing it’s grief. We’re all grieving, which is why it will be good to have the funeral or service or whatever you call it. We all say things we don’t mean in the heat of the moment.’ I think about me idiotically insisting that Fabien go on this tour and wishing I could turn back the clock.
I smile at him, but he doesn’t smile back and turns to the window.
‘Right. Let’s get this place sorted and ready to open,’ I say, clapping my hands. As soon as I’m back in the kitchen the recipes I know and love will come back to me. I’ll be where I belong, feeling Henri by my side. Life can go back to the way it was, even if Henri isn’t actually in it. I’ll make sure his name is written bigger and bolder on the daily blackboard so no one ever forgets why this place is called Henri’s and who was at the heart of it. He changed people’s lives around here and we won’t let anyone forget that.
‘We just need to decide how this is going to work,’ I say. ‘I mean, are you planning on helping out or hands-off, as Henri was?’ I’m hoping for the latter, a sleeping partner, so that I can carry on as I was.
The glaziers finish putting in the new glass and I step forward to thank them, but Zacharie beats me to it, thanking them for coming so fast. Not fast at all, I think. I’ve been waiting since the mistral. Then I realize, it’s not the same glazing company I had booked, or the signwriter, who steps forward to start on the window, stencils in hand. The glaziers leave and Zacharie returns to his spot, watching the work on the window.
‘The thing is, this town has money,’ Zacharie says slowly and thoughtfully. I’m not even sure if he’s talking to me or to himself. He’s staring straight ahead.
‘Well, yes, there are some wealthy people here, big holiday homes, but there are also the ordinary ones who want to eat affordable home-style cooking, like Henri has always done. There’s room for all here.’
‘It needs more proper French restaurants, not Italian recipes or, God forbid, anything British.’ I wince, wondering if he’s referring to the fish and chips I’ve put on the menu on a Friday sometimes.
‘This place is crying out for high-quality classic French cooking.’
‘Well, yes, and Henri’s does all the French classics: coq au vin, beef daube, ratatouille …’
He laughs, surprising me. I start to smile with him, hoping this is his way of going forward working together. It might take some getting used to but …
‘Peasant food,’ he says suddenly, repeating his description of Henri’s dishes, practically spitting out the word with disgust. Then the smile returns to his lips.
For a moment I’m stuck for words as if I’m standing on sand and it’s shifting under my feet. I try to find my way back into the conversation.
‘Well, the customers seem to enjoy it and that’s what counts,’ I say. ‘If you have any dishes you’d like to add …’ I attempt to move things forward again. It’s like herding a cat down a street full of alleyways for it to turn into.
He takes off his sunglasses and stares straight at me. ‘They will all be new dishes,’ he says decisively.
‘Well, um, I think we should include some new ones but definitely keep the favourites,’ I say, keen not to be walked over and overruled, but also to include him in the business. After all, we’re partners now and we need to try to work together.
‘Non,’ he says flatly. ‘There will be nothing of the old left behind.’ He walks towards the window where the signwriter is at work inside.
‘Well, hang on a moment. Un moment, s’il vous pla?t,’ I say, trying to appease him. ‘I think people liked—’
He interrupts me. ‘For it to be a high-end Michelin-starred restaurant, it will need a completely new menu.’
‘Michelin-starred?’ This time it’s my turn to laugh. He doesn’t. I stop and look at his face. He’s not joking.
‘I have no doubt,’ he says, with confidence, ‘for the cooking that we will produce, you will need deep pockets to eat here and, in time, I will expand.’
‘Oh, it’s good of you to rate me like that, but I’m not sure I could cook Michelin-starred food. I haven’t had any formal training.’
He looks at me as the signwriter is finishing, wiping down not gold but grey writing. My eyes blur as I try to read the lettering. ‘But there must be some mistake.’ I look between him and the window. The sun is creeping up into the sky and bearing down on me, the back of my neck. I feel hot and light-headed.
‘Like I say, this place will become a Michelin-starred restaurant.’ He turns to look at me. ‘I don’t see a place for you in that, do you?’ The familiar look of Henri yet with a cold expression is confusing me even further.
‘What? But— Hang on! I’m Henri’s business partner! You can’t just push me out!’
I stand and watch as the signwriter finishes with a final rub of the window, eradicating any trace that Henri’s was ever there. It now reads ‘l’expérience’.
‘You are partner of what was the business, Henri’s. Not the building. And from what I see, Henri’s doesn’t exist any more,’ he says, pulling his sunglasses back on and nodding at the signwriter.
I point at the sign with a shaking hand. ‘What? No. You can’t.’
‘Oui, je peux,’ he says. ‘It’s over and it’s time to go home, back to where you came from. Leave the cooking to the professionals. Au revoir.’ He turns away and starts to walk towards the car, parked opposite Fabien’s brocante at the end of the narrow street. Suddenly the Sunday bells from the church are ringing. The bells I have become used to, that somehow make me feel this is my home. I’m not going to be bullied out of it. I may be a migrant, but I’m part of this community. Henri made sure of that. Everyone was welcome. I won’t be pushed out. We all have a right to be here, however much Henri’s son would like to see this turned into a high-end, money-making, no-peasant-food-allowed place.
‘Well,’ I say, a red mist descending in front of my eyes, ‘we’ll see about that!’ I storm forward, practically knocking the signwriter off his feet. He tidies his belongings and makes to leave as I head straight for the kitchen.
‘L’expérience!!’ I say, furious, banging pots from their hooks onto the counter. The counter I have cleaned and polished every day since Henri handed over the keys, which now seem to be in Zacharie’s possession.
I pull large spoons from the pots beside the hob.
Outside I hear a shout. Someone calling Zacharie’s name. But I’m in my own world and everything outside it is just noise.
‘Hey!’ Zacharie is standing in the doorway of the kitchen, surprised and irritated. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Taking what’s mine!’ I say, standing in the middle of the kitchen with my hands on my hips. I feel as if my home is being repossessed so I’m grabbing what I can, while I can. ‘I may not own the building, but I am still a partner in this business, Henri’s! And these pots and pans belong to me, as much as they do to Henri, a part of the business.’
He sighs as if he’s dealing with a petulant schoolchild, which infuriates me even more, making me pull every pan I can off its hook and slamming them onto the functional kitchen work surface with a satisfying clatter and a bang.
‘I suggest you put everything back where it was and leave.’ He holds out his hands in front of him. ‘You’re clearly upset.’
I spin round and glare at him. ‘Upset?’ I snap. ‘I don’t think you have any idea how I’m feeling, but upset doesn’t quite cover it.’
My frustration moves up another notch and, with renewed vigour, I carry on, stripping the kitchen of the herbs and spices on the rack, the whisk Henri taught me to use, and the ladle he always served with. Henri’s son Zacharie might own the bricks and mortar and Henri’s personal items, but he’s not having the pans Henri cooked with, the whisk, the ladle, or the ancient bottle-opener he loved. No way! These are the pans where he made enough for the bistro and the riverside clearing project. These are Henri’s. The business’s.
‘If you want half, you’ll have to come and take them off me!’ I say, clasping the items to my chest.
He throws back his head and laughs. ‘And what do you plan to do? Set up a little home-cooking bistro somewhere else?’
I say nothing. I have absolutely no idea what I’m going to do. But I’m not letting him have the tools that made Henri’s what it was.
‘Well, good luck,’ he says, standing aside as I attempt to walk to the door, holding the pans and other utensils in my arms.
I stop and try to say calmly, ‘It doesn’t have to be like this. Your father would hate it.’
He screws up his face. ‘What do you know about my father?’
‘I know the good he did here, the people he helped.’
‘Yes. He was so busy helping others he didn’t notice the family he had under his nose. My mother left him and he should have done more to stop it happening, to stop our family falling apart.’ I can see the anger flashing in his eyes.
‘You’re right. I know nothing of Henri before my time here. But—’
‘Don’t. Don’t tell me water has passed under the bridge or whatever you say in the UK. If I am erasing all trace of Henri’s maybe it’s because that’s what I want. I want to erase the memories of when I wanted my father there for me, and he wasn’t. He was there for everyone else, though. Good old Henri! Now, please, leave!’
I grapple for a large wooden spoon that’s slipping from my fingertips and catch it between my knees. Then, slowly and steadily, I waddle towards the door, trying to keep my dignity, which I may not have achieved, judging by the laughter of the signwriter, and the pointing of other shopkeepers who, as yet, have no idea what’s going on. I head for the end of the street, tears rolling down my face and my dignity dragging along behind me in the gutter.