Chapter 3
I open my purse, see a single euro and smile.
It catches in the early June sunlight. I’ve been here for eight weeks now and have adjusted to euros not pounds, but with not much call for cash, these days, I’ve only got a few coins and notes.
But I do have a euro, and that is very good.
I smile, because a euro is exactly what I need.
I plan to go over to the old mill and have a picnic on the lawn next to the lake.
At my old mill, I think, and smile to myself.
I contemplate the key in my bag and the handshake I shared with the notaire once the final paperwork was signed.
My initial reaction was to hug him – I was so overjoyed that the mill was finally mine, signed, sealed and paid for at an incredible price.
But the horror on his face as I threw open my arms told me that wasn’t the right reaction, so I gripped his hand and shook it. Maybe a little over-enthusiastically.
I’m ready to move out of my little room at the chambre d’h?te , where I’ve been for the last eight weeks under the curious eyes of its owners, Monsieur and Madame Martin, wondering why I would buy a run-down old mill in the very quiet Village du Grand Lac.
I’ve been filling my days exploring other towns and villages nearby, getting to know the lie of the land, market days, visiting brocantes and planning how I want the mill to look when I turn it into a salon de thé .
I’ve also done lots of online research while drinking coffee in cafés.
And, of course, I’m learning French online and eating plat du jour lunches in small restaurants on my own.
Not that I minded that: I was used to it.
I’d known it was the beginning of the end when Pete and I stopped eating together.
He preferred ready meals by a big-brand producer from the supermarket, but I liked the veg box we had delivered.
I made soups and stews from it, filling the freezer with batch cooking, as you do when you’re cooking for one. It was just a habit we slipped into.
But it was our holiday to France that brought things to a close for Pete and me.
A crossroads. It was supposed to be a celebration of the end of my treatment, waking up here in Brittany, looking out over the fields feeling more alive than I ever have, but something between Pete and me had died.
I wanted to grab life, live it for the now.
He wanted to carry on as normal … whatever normal was.
Go back to how we were before I got the diagnosis.
Pretend it never happened and it had just gone away.
I wanted to do everything I’d never done.
So, we could never have bought the old mill. But I did!
I texted the family WhatsApp group when I came out of the notaire ’s office and sent a picture of the big metal key.
No going back now then! said Maddie.
When can we visit? said Jake.
Whenever you want and I cannot wait!
Pete sent a thumbs-up, which was good. I know he meant it.
I messaged Annie too: Well, I’ve done it. I have the key. I own an old watermill in France. I’m scared and thrilled! I’m going to have lunch beside the lake, on my lawn! I can’t believe it!
Eek! she replied. Me neither! That is amazing! Send pictures! I want to see what it looks like. I want to imagine myself there!
I will!
So this is it. I’m here, with the key. I’ve acquired the mill in good time, I’m told, at a good price, it having been on the market for several years. It had been sold by the mairie , the town hall, after years of standing empty. The mayor was insistent the sale be straightforward and quick.
So here I am, eight weeks on from arriving on 1 April, the key in my handbag, in the square at Village de Grand Lac, standing under the shade of the line of plane trees facing each other just beyond the pétanque pitch.
There is a small tabac but not much else, which may be a good thing as my idea for the old mill and the salon de thé begins to grow.
It’s lunchtime and the village is deserted, apart from a white cat with brown and black patches on its back, lying out in the sun in front of the old boulangerie .
People visiting will need somewhere to eat.
Maybe I could get some signs done, pointing out of the village and directing them on the ten-minute walk down the lane to the mill.
All I need to do now is take my idea to the mayor, explain my plans for my business and apply for a visa to stay on and work.
Looks like they could do with more businesses around here, more places for people to eat.
I’m sure my idea will be just right for the mill and the village.
I turn and stare at the vending machine in front of me, opposite the tabac by the parking spaces.
This is a first for me. In the neighbouring town there is a boulangerie where I bought croissants every morning and a baguette for lunch.
The bread was good, but the woman behind the counter barely smiled.
Here, in this smaller village, the boulangerie is shut, the yellowing blinds firmly down with a closed sign on the door.
Instead, there is this: a vending machine selling fresh baguettes.
I can read the instructions, written in French, thanks to my online lessons and recent Duolingo streak.
I slide my euro into the slot. My stomach rumbles at the smell of the goat’s cheese I bought from a farmhouse between here and the town where I’ve been staying, along with some fresh tomatoes from a stall on the side of the road.
Their grassy smell reaches my nostrils and tantalises my tastebuds.
I hear the euro drop onto other coins in the machine and lift the flap waiting for my bread to drop. I watch as the baguette shakes behind the glass. It shakes some more and then, when I frown and wonder if I’m going to get my bread, the whirring noise stops.
‘It hasn’t dropped!’ I say to the machine, and lift the flap. ‘You didn’t drop my baguette!’ I say. I give the machine a little nudge to see if my baguette will fall out. But nothing moves.
I give the glass a gentle knock, but the bread still doesn’t move.
‘Oh, come on!’ I look in my purse, but there are no other euro coins. I stick my fingers into the machine and check the coin-return hole. Nothing. I press eject, several times, to get my coin back, but nothing appears.
‘I need my baguette,’ I tell the machine, and give the clear glass a firmer bash with the flat of my hand, hoping it will shift the stuck loaf. ‘This is my special picnic! And you aren’t going to stop me!’ I’m sounding slightly unhinged, but cheese and tomatoes with no bread is not lunch.
‘I’m out of euros!’ I try to reason with the machine. It does nothing.
‘Okay, well, if you’re going to be like that, there’s only one thing for it!’
This time I reach my arms around the machine, ready to wrestle and shake it.
I’m tired and hungry and I need to eat. And my baguette is just in front of me.
My baguette I’ve paid for. This is my celebration baguette!
Everything I’ve dreamt of since I first got here: eating it on the lawn by the lake.
I shake the machine but the baguette isn’t budging. ‘Oh, come on, give me my bread!’
‘Madame.’
My head snaps up and I realise how this looks. I stand back from the machine and straighten to see a tall, broad-shouldered, good-looking man, with long dark hair and a beard. A very good-looking man indeed.
He raises an eyebrow. ‘Can I help you?’ he asks, then adds, ‘We have laws against vandalism,’ an amused smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.
My cheeks flush. ‘I saw you from there.’ He points at the tabac , with tables and chairs outside.
‘I can see you have a dispute with our bread machine. We would appreciate it if you didn’t break it.
It is our only way to buy our daily baguettes around here. ’
‘ Monsieur, bonjour ,’ I say, taking another step away from the vending machine and feeling hot. I lift my shoulders and tilt my head. ‘This is not what it looks like,’ I say evenly. ‘I wasn’t trying to vandalise it.’
‘I see.’ He folds his arms across his chest. ‘You had your arms around it. Maybe you were embracing it. Madame, have you been drinking? I haven’t seen you in the bar. Maybe the sun has affected you. Do you need help? Can I ring someone for you?’
‘No,’ I say, horrified, and if it weren’t so embarrassing, I’d be laughing. ‘I’m not sick. It’s just my baguette, it’s stuck. I only had one euro. And now I have no bread, and that means I have no lunch.’
He holds my gaze and I wonder if he’s trying to decide whether to believe me, or is just teasing me. He steps around the vending machine.
‘See, that one,’ I point to the listing baguette. ‘I’ve paid. It won’t drop it,’ I say, pointing to the balanced, angled loaf.
He looks at it, arms folded again, his checked shirt rolled back to his elbows, his small hoop earring catching the light. ‘You’re right. I can see the problem,’ he says, staring at the baguette matter-of-factly. ‘We all need to eat.’
‘I know!’ I put my hands on my hips and let out a sigh.
‘It doesn’t matter.’ I wave a hand, backing away.
I look around the village square, at the tabac , where he’s come from.
It seems to sell cigarettes, scratch cards, coffee and pastis.
Three old men are stepping out of it, in flat caps and short-sleeved shirts, with braces holding up their trousers, clearly coming to watch my frustration with the bread machine.
Oh, God, I have an audience! Let’s hope none of them had a phone to film me.
I very much doubt it. This is rural Brittany, not some suburban sprawl where everyday life is recorded for others’ amusement.