Chapter 15
W hat on earth have I agreed to?
It’s the following morning, and I’m standing outside the disused boulangerie , with the peeling maroon paint on the wood around the big window, covered from the inside with yellowing netting.
I’m looking at the ‘ Fermé ’ sign through the glass door with the sun-bleached blind pulled down.
I give myself a good talking-to and remind myself I’m doing this to get my visa, and to set up the salon de thé where I will live a lovely quiet life on the banks of the lake with the kingfishers, making cakes for people to enjoy.
I pull out the key from my bag and slot it into the lock.
I turn it and push the door but it doesn’t open.
After giving it a shove with my shoulder, it still doesn’t budge.
It’s stuck at the bottom. I kick it once, and then again, harder this time.
It flies open, sending the bell above the door into a frenzy.
I hear the bang of a window opening above and a dog barking furiously.
‘ All?? ’
I step back from the door to look up.
‘ Qu’est-ce qui se passe? ’ a sharp voice says.
‘Hello? Bonjour? ’ I shade my eyes from the sun with my hand.
‘ Qu’est-ce qui se passe? ’ a white-haired woman repeats. She has a cigarette in one hand and leans out of the window, a silk scarf tied around her neck. ‘I will call the gendarmes !’ She points at me with bright red nails, cigarette smoke swirling.
‘Oh, I’m not breaking in. I have the key. La clé .’ I hold it up. She says something quickly in French.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t understand. Could you repeat that, please? Do you speak English?’
The woman sighs deeply. ‘Why, Madame, would you have the key to the boulangerie? ’
‘I’m reopening it.’ I remember my manners. ‘I’m Juliet. I own the old mill. I’m opening the boulangerie . People will have fresh bread every day again.’
‘ Oh, mon dieu! ’ She waves the hand with the cigarette. ‘ C’est pas vrai! ’ she rolls her eyes upwards.
I’m confused. ‘But this has always been a bakery, hasn’t it?’
‘A noisy one at that! Much better now it has closed. I should know.’
‘But the town wants a bakery.’
‘The obsession with bread. There is a machine they can use. Why must we be so obsessed with bread in this country?’
‘Well, it does appear on every meal table here,’ I reply, trying to be jovial.
She looks at me and I look back at her, her short white hair curled neatly into a soft quiff at the front. ‘Are you a chef?’ she asks sharply.
I shake my head.
‘Are you French?’
I shake my head again.
‘Phffff!!’ She throws up a hand. ‘If a French baker can’t make it work, how will you? A British woman! I will speak to the mayor. A ridiculous idea!’
The window slams, startling me, and then I feel my backbone stiffen.
I stare at the shop front again, the peeling paint and old leaves gathered in the doorway.
Behind me, smartly dressed women carrying baskets are arriving in the square.
It’s mid-morning and there are a few stalls at the foot of the church steps.
One man is selling oysters, another langoustines from the back of a van.
A chap with an old 2 CV is selling vegetables off the bonnet and a woman with a table is offering goat’s cheese and homemade wine from large plastic bottles.
Two women kiss each other briefly in greeting before picking up their oysters and vegetables, then walk over to the fully stocked baguette machine.
I can’t help but wonder what this place might have been like when the boulangerie was open, if the market was busier.
It feels flat. Not like the market I’ve just come from in the neighbouring town.
Or others I’ve visited when I waited for the purchase of the mill to go through.
This village seems almost deserted, waiting for someone to close it for good.
The women just stare at me as they pass by.
Then, once a safe distance away, lean into each other, shoulder to shoulder, clearly discussing me.
I raise a friendly hand and get a stiff nod back as they bustle towards the vending machine and buy their bread.
It’s a small but consistent customer base.
The women glance at me again, then turn to walk briskly away in their smart, low-heeled shoes, baskets at their sides, baguettes in hand, ready to prepare lunch.
And then I’m on my own in the square in the shade of the plane trees. The few stall holders are still packing up, and then there is just the sound of pétanque from the older men as ball hits ball.
I kick away the leaves outside the boulangerie . I step into the small shop area, running my hand along the worn wooden counter, then walk behind it to the kitchen at the back. I stand and stare. I have no idea what all this equipment does.
I get a flashback to my days at the hospital, arriving terrified and without a clue how anything worked.
I watched, week by week, as people came in, how we became accustomed to the machinery, the nurses and each other.
Some were helped slowly until they were well enough to be signed off treatment.
I think about the scar on my left breast. Others, like Annie, were not so lucky.
I hold up my phone, take a photograph and send it to Annie.
You’ll never guess what I’ve gone and agreed to . I smile as I type.
Tell me! she messages back, and I explain how I’ve come to have the keys to the local bakery.
Then I text the family WhatsApp group.
Wow! says Pete.
Cool! says Jake.
Woohooo! says Maddie. Can you bake bread?
Working on it , I say.
Bit like my DJ ing! says Jake.
All okay, Jake?
Yeah , he replies. Bit like you, I’m working on it .
Every journey starts with the first step. Keep going , I type.
I will , he says.
I send kisses, then leave the shop for the supermarket out of town to buy yet more cleaning products and flour.
All I seem to have done so far is clean!
The three old men playing pétanque watch me go with interest. A day at a time, I repeat.
But there’s one more thing I need to do before I start cleaning the boulangerie , something I need to put right.