Chapter 16
I return from the supermarket, having enjoyed pushing the trolley up and down the aisles.
The shop is much the same as back home, just smaller and with different products.
I can negotiate this, I tell myself. I’ve been navigating all of this new life since I got here.
I found driving on the other side of the road strange at first, but I’m getting used to it.
On the journey back from the supermarket, I felt the beginning of familiarity about the route, just as I do now, parking under the shade of the plane trees in the square beside the baguette machine.
I pick up the cake tin next to me on the seat, which I went to the mill to collect on my way back from the supermarket, and get out of the car.
The back seat is packed with cleaning products to leave at the boulangerie , a brush, mop and different bags of flour for testing.
I look at the tabac and take a deep breath.
The three old men are now sitting outside at a round table with cups of coffee in front of them.
I lock the car and walk slowly towards the tabac , nodding to them as I approach.
‘ Bonjour ,’ I say politely as I pass. They incline their heads and stare at me as I go inside, clearly wondering what I’m doing here.
Inside, not only is it dark and cool, it’s also empty. There’s no one here at all. There are a small number of café-style tables with chairs, a couple of tables for two, one for four, and a large barrel for standing at to drink coffee or a lunchtime pastis .
‘ Bonjour? ’ I call, a little nervously.
‘ J’arrive ,’ I hear, and then Laurent appears in the doorway that leads to the back room, practically filling it.
He stops, then slowly approaches the other side of the counter.
His long dark hair appears to have been recently washed; he has a thick beard and brown eyes the colour of conkers, with eyebrows to match.
He frowns when he sees me and puts his large hands on the counter, silver rings on his thumb and other fingers.
For a moment neither of us speaks, and then he says, ‘ Bonjour ,’ and nods politely but cautiously.
‘How can I help you?’ He holds a hand to the coffee machine, ‘ Café or a beer maybe? Or have you come to hit me on the head again with whatever you might have in your basket?’
He may be joking – his dark eyes are sparkling.
I take a deep breath and put my basket on the counter. ‘I think I may owe you an apology.’
He allows a moment to pass without speaking, the awkward silence making me squirm. But, I tell myself, I’ve been through worse than a large rugby-playing type making me work at an apology.
He opens the dishwasher and steam pours out, like a dragon waking from its long winter slumber.
‘You think,’ he says, picking up a cup from the dishwasher and inspecting it, then looking at me with his dark eyes, ‘or you know?’ He lifts one eyebrow.
‘I …’ I clear my throat and hold his stare. ‘I’m sorry. Désolée ,’ I add.
‘For what? Seeing me off your land like a bad smell?’
I chew my bottom lip. ‘I’m sorry for both. Either …’
He carries on drying the cups. ‘Was it the long hair or the tattoos that made you assume I was bad news? Or maybe you’d been listening to local gossip?’
‘I don’t know anything about you. But I did assume … Look, I brought you something, to say sorry.’ I try to move this on.
He raises both eyebrows now. ‘You brought me something?’
I reach into my pocket, pull out a euro and hold it up.
‘I owe you one euro,’ I say, and I slide it across the shiny polished bar. ‘For the bread machine.’
He smiles and reaches out, his fingertips just touching mine as he takes it and drops it into the till with a dramatic gesture.
‘ Merci ,’ he says, then looks back at me.
Am I forgiven? Will I be able to work here, opposite the man I practically accused of drug-dealing and assaulted?
‘You’ve paid your debt. It’s fine.’ He starts to wipe down the already clean bar.
‘And I made you this. Well, I was baking, back at the mill …’ I pull the cake tin from my basket and push it over the counter. The old men wander in from outside and up to the counter to see what’s going on. ‘I thought you might like it.’
Laurent stops wiping the bar and looks at it, then at one of the old men, who says, ‘ Qu’est-ce que c’est? ’
For a moment I think it was a terrible idea, but I’ve come this far.
Laurent smiles. ‘He wants to know what it is,’ he translates.
‘Yes, I got that, thank you.’ I lift my chin and look at the men staring at the cake tin.
‘A Victoria Sandwich.’
‘ Un quoi ?’ says one, cupping a hand over his ear.
‘ Un gateau. A Victoria Sandwich,’ says Laurent.
I lift the lid, take it out of the tin and put it on the bar.
The three old men frown at it. ‘An English cake!’
‘British,’ I correct.
They eye it suspiciously.
‘It’s made with eggs, flour, sugar, homemade strawberry jam,’ I say, pulling out a knife from my basket – a favourite I always took, rolled up in a tea-towel, when we went on family picnics. I cut the cake into twelve slices, then push it towards Laurent and the gathered men.
They raise their eyebrows.
I see one reach out and take a slice. He bites into it, crumbs tumbling over the counter.
Laurent nods slowly. ‘I see.’
There’s an uncomfortable silence that is interrupted by surprised ‘nom nom’ sounds coming from the elderly man eating the cake. The other two reach for slices themselves.
Laurent chuckles. ‘That is a good reaction,’ he says. And I feel a little relieved. Someone is eating what I made and likes it. I can bake, I remind myself.
‘So, is that it? You came to bring me a euro and cake?’
I can tell we’re still on sticky ground. ‘I did. And, as I said, I came to apologise. And to say …’ I take a deep breath and a run at it ‘… I’m opening the boulangerie opposite. I hope you’ll want to come and buy bread.’
He stares at me. ‘The boulangerie in the village?’
‘Yes, so that people will have fresh bread instead of relying on the vending machine,’ I say.
‘My wife swears by Claude’s bread,’ says one of the old men, helping himself to another piece of cake. ‘Says it stays fresh longer than others.’
Laurent slaps the counter, his rings clattering.
‘But it shouldn’t stay fresh. That’s the point!
’ he says crossly, in French, and I get the feeling this is a regular topic of conversation at this bar.
‘No one ever bought French bread for its shelf life. They buy it for the crunch, the soft middle to soak up the juices on the plate, not for how long it can hang around in the kitchen. If it’s hanging around, it isn’t good bread! ’
‘She probably said that because she fancies him,’ says the third old man, already eating a second slice.
‘Or maybe she is one of his lovers!’ jokes the first, helping himself to more cake.
‘Who hasn’t he slept with?’ says the second.
My cheeks burn at the memory of his lips on mine.
‘Anyway.’ I clear my throat and Laurent looks back at me.
‘I hope you’ll come and try my bread.’ I say it confidently, even though secretly I am wondering how on earth I am going to compete with the local baker when I know barely anything about bread.
As the woman above the boulangerie remarked, I’m British and I’m not a professional baker.
‘You won’t be the first to try,’ says one of the men at the bar, and the others nod in agreement.
I clasp my hands together and turn to leave.
‘Madame,’ I hear Laurent say as I reach the door. I turn back with one hand on the cool handle. ‘Madame, wait,’ he repeats, and beckons to me.
‘Juliet. I’m Juliet,’ I say, trying not to feel I’ve made a fool of myself by bringing him a cake.
‘Juliet,’ he says, as he takes a bite of cake.
‘It’s good,’ he says slowly, taking another bite and raising the piece in my direction.
‘If you make decent bread, I’m sure people will come.
You just have to offer them something different from what’s already available.
’ He shrugs one shoulder. ‘If it’s as tasty as your cake,’ he smiles lazily, and holds up the piece he’s eating, ‘I’m sure you will have no worries. Bonne chance et bon profitez .’
‘ Merci . And apologies again.’
‘Wait,’ he says as I turn to leave. ‘I have a gift for you.’ He reaches into the till and then slides a euro across the counter. ‘You never know when it will come in useful. A good-luck gift for your new venture.’
I smile at the gesture and walk back over to the counter to take the coin. ‘ Merci ,’ I say, and put it back in my pocket.
He smiles as I leave the café, and I find myself smiling too, my head high as I walk back to the boulangerie , push open the door and the bell rings – followed by knocking on the floor above.
‘ Arrêt! ’ comes a complaining shout, presumably from my neighbour upstairs.
I lean against the door, my back to the tabac , ears burning. I remember his words: ‘the crunch, the soft middle to soak up the juices … If you make decent bread, I’m sure people will come.’
I hope so, because it’s the only way I have of getting the mill up and running.
I head to the scullery, just beyond the bakery, and turn on the taps over the sink, which splutter and spurt.
Once the water starts pouring, I run a cloth under it and start to clean as if my life depends on it …
because life as I know it actually does.