Chapter 13
T he following morning I don’t wait to ask the receptionist if the mayor is free to see me: his office door is open behind her desk.
I walk straight past her as she squeaks, ‘ Non, Madame, non , not possible today! This is not how things are done here. Non! ’ She jumps up to follow me.
‘ Ce n’est pas possible! Vous ne comprenez pas! ’
‘ Oui! ’ I say, over my shoulder, and carry on walking. Old habits die hard here. Oui … C’est possible! I’m ready to take on anybody who stands in my way today. I’m fired up as I march into the mayor’s office, take a deep breath, put my hands on his desk, lean over and announce, ‘Okay, I’ll do it!’
He looks up at me, then says slowly, in French, as if to remind me of where we are, ‘ Bonjour, Madame .’
‘What? Oh, yes, bonjour , sorry, désolée .’ I look down at his proffered hand and shake it.
‘Take a seat,’ he says, again in French, and then, having made his point, switches to English. ‘How are you? How is your work coming on at le moulin ?’
I sigh. Clearly we are doing things his way. The slow way. ‘Fine, thank you.’
There’s a pause. And I realise I’m expected to respond. ‘ Et comment allez vous? ’
‘ Très bien, merci .’
Now that the courtesies are out of the way, I continue: ‘So, although work is coming on fine at the mill, my visa was declined. Surprisingly quickly.’
‘Ah, that is a shame.’ He shrugs.
‘Clearly someone didn’t want me to stay to set up my new business there.’
‘As I say, a shame. That place has a lot of history and is important to the community.’
His hands are on the desk, his fingers intertwined, and I’m sure he’s leaning on my file of paperwork.
And then I remember sitting beside the lake with Geneviève, after the rain, and pulling in the huge fish.
How we laughed, the triumph and the delicious taste of the meal, simple, with butter, lemon, the bread, oh, the bread.
The crisp exterior, breaking it to reveal the soft white inside.
And the tomato salad, the slices of pink sweet onion, all drizzled with olive oil, reminding me why I’m here.
‘I can do this. I know I can. I can make a difference here, at the mill. But I can’t set up my own business unless I have my visa.’
The mayor says nothing.
‘So, the boulangerie , is that what you’re saying it’ll take, for me to get my visa here? Is it? Because, okay, I’ll do it.’
He raises his eyebrows. ‘You will?’
‘The bakery, the boulangerie , yes, I’ll set it up again, get it going. So you’ll have bread baked in the town.’
He looks at me, a glint in his eye. ‘Without a visa you have no right to stay …’
‘But I’m sure you could help with that, for someone prepared to open the boulangerie here,’ I say slowly. ‘To give something back to the community.’
He sighs. ‘I feel I may have been too, how do you say, hasty.’ He wavers. ‘As you said yourself, you aren’t a baker. You are just a cook, who makes cakes. English cakes.’
‘British,’ I correct him.
‘You are British. You are not a professional baker of French bread. I may have misjudged things. How can a home cook bring back our boulangerie ?’
‘But I’m willing to give it a go and make it work.’
‘Give it a go? Madame, we are talking about one of the most prestigious professions in our country. We take great pride in our bread-making. You cannot just give it a go . You know nothing about our ways. You know about tea! We drink coffee, lots of coffee, and wine. And we eat bread. With every meal! When you said you were setting up a salon de thé , I thought you had skills in this area. But I understand now I was wrong.’
I lift my head higher. I’m not going to let him run me out of town with my tail between my legs.
I came here to get a taste of a new life.
A second chance. I’m not going let him stop me before I’ve begun.
I take a deep breath. ‘I promise I will do my very best. I know about baking, and I’m passionate about it.
I will be just as dedicated to learning about bread-making. ’
At first he says nothing, so I continue.
‘I will work hard to get the boulangerie up and running. I know how important it is to you. And, as you say, how much more will shut down here if you don’t let strangers in?
Is this what you want for the town? All that will be left is a bread-vending machine and maybe a coffee machine next to it.
Or what about the road that could go through the middle of the town, making sure the town is no more, just a road to somewhere else? ’
He gazes at me and I wonder if I’ve gone too far, but I can’t stop now. ‘You said you wanted the bakery open again. I’ll do it! I’ll get it open and running, and then I’ll open my salon de thé .’
‘I want it open … but an Englishwoman with no experience in baking. We could be a laughing stock!’
‘Do you want your boulangerie open, oui ou non ?’
‘ Mais oui! Yes!’
‘Then I’ll do it. And you’ll sort out my visa. I’ll be as French as I need to be to make this happen,’ I say, frustrated.
‘You will become French?’ he asks, bemused.
‘Whatever it takes. I’ll learn the language, the etiquette, the history. I’ll throw myself into it.’
He nods. ‘That’s good to hear.’
Never underestimate the determination of a pissed-off middle-aged woman , I growl in my head, but he seems to have got the message.
‘You will open the boulangerie and sell daily bread?’
‘I will. If that’s what it takes to get my visa, then yes. And in time I’ll set up my salon de thé at the mill.’
He peers down at the file under his hands.
‘But I need the agreement that I’ll get a visa to stay if I do it.
’ And I barely know myself, sounding firm and businesslike.
But this is business and it’s about me, taking my chance with both hands and not being treated like I’m as green as I am cabbage-looking.
Even if I may have behaved like that. This is not a movie, or a holiday, and I’m certainly not here to find a man.
That was never what this new chapter in my life was about. I need to focus on what I do want.
‘A temporary visa could be arranged, a short-stay one,’ he says, ‘which will give you the right to work. And then, say, once the boulangerie is taking money, a more permanent visa could be arranged for you to reside here.’
We’re talking the same language now. I just needed to take my time. ‘How long will the short-stay visa cover?’
‘You have three months to get the boulangerie up and running. By the beginning of September, you must be making a profit. If you are, you will get your longer visa to stay and work. If not, you will return home to the UK .’
‘That would be agreeable,’ I say. ‘Three months from today.’
Suddenly he beams. ‘The boulangerie , back in the village! It will stop us disappearing into oblivion. Becoming a ghost village, abandoned and knocked down to make way for some road. A celebration!’
He opens his drawer and pulls out two glasses, then one of many bottles of whisky. He pours two large measures. He hands me a glass and I take it. ‘I wonder what got my visa declined the first time,’ I say.
‘Maybe you were missing some important paperwork. We can help with that. You just bring us our daily baguettes. Bon profitez! ’ he says.
‘Yes, to profit,’ I toast, misunderstanding the expression but feeling it’s appropriate anyway.
‘Yes, to profit, or I’m afraid your visa won’t be approved, and I suspect the mill will need to be sold …
if a buyer can be found … at the right price,’ he says, making sure I understand what he’s saying, and I realise this is not a done deal.
Selling the mill will be hard. Who else would want it?
It was on the market for so long that I’d probably have to sell it for much less than I bought it.
This long-term visa isn’t in the bag, not by a long shot.
I think about Laurent at the tabac , shouting that the mill had been promised to him and I wonder if this is part of a plan to get me out.
I need to put everything into this to make it happen.
‘Here’s to bringing back the boulangerie and our daily bread.’ He holds up his glass and tips back his whisky. ‘You’ll need to meet your new landlord,’ he says, then opens his desk drawer, takes out a key and puts it in front of me.
‘Where do I meet them?’
‘Here, now. It is me.’ He smiles at his little joke. ‘I’ll have your tenancy agreement drawn up immediately.’
You can’t fault his game-playing. Like a chess master.
Get the boulangerie in profit, or lose your right to a visa and sell the mill to the person I promised it to originally, but for a much lower price.
Well, it looks like I’m in the game, and I want to win.
I tip back the whisky and feel it burn all the way down my throat, as if I’d just made a pact with the devil.
I put the glass on the table and take the key.
I step out into the village square and see a cat is lying out in the shade of the plane trees, just in front of the boulangerie .
So, that’s it, I think. I’m getting a temporary visa.
I can stay until 5 September. I’m not running home.
I’m here for the adventure and to prove to myself I can do this.
I’m going to stay and make my mark here.
I deserve this chance to find my own happiness.
And if this is the only way to do it, so be it.
A bit like when I first found out I was ill – I couldn’t run or hide from it.
I had to face it and fight it, no matter how unpleasant it got.
And that is exactly what I intend to do now.
Sometimes you just have to close your eyes and take a leap of faith … because going back isn’t an option.