Chapter 18
I t’s early in the morning, not yet light. I want to be at the boulangerie without anyone watching me from the tabac and while my neighbour is still asleep, not banging on the ceiling. I need to get in as much practice as I can if I’m to have this business up and running.
The ovens are on.
I’ve shaped the loaves into long cylinders and re-proved them. I’ve followed the instructions from YouTube and what I could remember from all the googling I could do. They look like baguettes. I admire them lined up on the baking sheet, each in its little hammock, ready for the oven.
I stand back and photograph them, ready to send pictures to everyone back home.
Then I slide them in and shut the door, before I dust off my hands and set a timer.
Once that’s done, I go to the scullery and make a coffee, then walk back through the shop and open the front door quietly.
I stare out over the empty square. Dawn is breaking.
I breathe in, taking time to be in the moment.
The little cat strolls over to me, rubbing against my legs.
I bend and stroke him, his purring making me smile.
I go inside, fetch a bowl of water and put it down, stroking the cat some more and enjoying the peace of the early-morning light, the company of my new feline friend and the coffee.
My thoughts turn to the mill and the work I’ve got to do there.
I share pictures I’ve taken recently with the family WhatsApp group and Annie.
I haven’t heard from her for a few days, which is unusual, but I send the pictures of the boulangerie and the unbaked baguettes, waiting to be turned into golden wonders.
I hope that news from my business venture will make her smile. I wait to hear back from her.
The smell of burning catapults me from my thoughts. I run back in through the shop, around the high wooden counter and to the kitchen beyond. Smoke tumbles from the oven as I throw open the door and cough. The smoke alarm starts its incessant beeping and the banging starts from upstairs.
‘ Arrêt! Mon dieu! I’m dying from smoke up here!’ she yells in French. She’s talking very quickly, but I get the gist of what she’s saying.
I open all the doors and windows and wave a tea-towel in front of the smoke alarms.
‘Is everything okay?’ I hear a shout from across the square. It’s Laurent. And I’m not sure why, but I don’t want him to think I’m not up to this. It’s like I have something to prove, after misjudging him so badly. I want to prove I can get something right.
‘ Absolument! ’ I try to smile and give a thumbs-up. ‘All good!’ I wave the smoke out, as if it was completely normal, and hear the window open upstairs.
‘I could suffocate up here! What are you doing down there, Madame?’
‘Sorry, Madame. I’m sorting it out now.’
‘ Vite! Quickly!’ she says, and bangs the window shut.
With the burnt baguettes in the bin, and the smoke alarm finally off, I examine the oven and realise there’s a problem with the temperature-control button. While the casing moves, the mechanism inside is stuck on the highest setting. Try as I might, I can’t shift it.
I grab my bag, lock the boulangerie door and head to the mayor’s office. Instead of waiting to be told ‘ Non ’ by the receptionist, I stalk straight to the mayor’s desk as the woman throws up her hands, and I catch a flash of red from her long, painted nails. I can feel her scowl as I pass.
‘Madame Juliet!’ He smiles. ‘How are things going at the boulangerie ? Will we soon have our own bread made here in the village?’
I let out a long sigh and shake my head. ‘Not unless I can get the oven working properly and my neighbour stops complaining by banging on the floor above.’
‘Ah, Madame Bertou.’ He nods. ‘She has been a little tricky as a tenant since the bakery shut.’
‘Difficult is one word.’
‘She is set in her ways. She stays in her apartment. The boulangerie closed years ago, as you know, and the space has been empty since. It will be an adjustment.’
‘For her or for me? Oh, and the oven isn’t working properly,’ I say, keen to get on. ‘Do you know who I can call to fix it? I’ve tried googling someone to do oven repairs but I can’t find anyone.’
He smiles. ‘Of course. You need Laurent.’
My heart sinks. ‘Laurent?’
‘He runs the tabac across the street. He is the best engineer around here. Unless it’s cars. That was Gilles, but he closed his garage some years ago too. He plays pétanque with his companions in the village. But for this, it’s Laurent you need.’
Of course it is, I think, and I have no doubt he’ll be amused by the cliché of me, the British woman, setting herself up as a baker and burning her bread.
‘He is your best hope around here for a quick fix.’
I leave the mairie and wish I didn’t have to, but make for the tabac all the same.
‘It’s the knob,’ I assert, after saying bonjour to Laurent and greeting the three regular customers in French.
Laurent raises his eyebrows.
‘On the oven,’ I say quickly. ‘The knob is loose and the oven is stuck at the highest temperature.’
‘Ah,’ he says, understanding.
He translates for the three men at the bar.
‘Ah …’ they say.
A conversation breaks out quickly between the four, and I don’t understand most of it. There are hand gestures and demonstrations of what I think are nuts and bolts and screws, and where the problem lies.
My eyes ping to and fro between Laurent and one man in particular in a light beige jacket and cap to match, as they discuss mechanisms and remedies. I’m assuming that’s Gilles. Lots of shrugging and waving at the boulangerie seem to bring the conversation to a close.
‘I’ll come now,’ says Laurent, going out to the back room and returning with a bag of tools. The same rough-around-the-edges bag of tools I put outside the cellar door at the mill.
‘ Merci ,’ I say, a little contrite.
I head out of the door, wishing the three men a good day, and Laurent follows me out into the summer sunshine.
‘Wait – the tabac ? Who will look after it?’
He smiles. ‘My customers.’ He glances back at the three men propped against the bar, watching us.
‘I don’t think we’ll have a rush on any time soon.
’ Despite his relaxed smile, I can see that’s not a good thing.
How much money can he be making if he’s only selling three cups of coffee in the whole morning?
We head over to the boulangerie and I push open the door. He glances up, clearly expecting the bell, but it doesn’t ring. And somehow that seems sad. Like the life has gone from the place.
I watch as he puts his bag down, extracts a tool and goes straight to work. In the meantime, I busy myself, sweeping the already very clean floor. In no time at all, he stands up straight and throws his tools back into the open bag on the floor.
‘It should work fine now,’ he says, standing back from the oven and washing his hands in the sink.
‘ Merci ,’ I say, wishing I could have repaired this for myself. ‘How much do I owe you?’
He considers, then gives me one of his lazy smiles. ‘Call it a favour. A new beginning between business neighbours.’
‘No.’ I reach for my purse. ‘Really, I need to pay you.’
He looks at me with a tilt of the head, as if amused. ‘It was just an adjustment,’ he says, before he adds with devilment, ‘It was a good job I had my tools.’
I blush at the memory of hitting him on the head and tossing out his bag. ‘I need to do something to pay you back.’
‘Bring me some bread when you have made some …’ – he looks at the cremated articles in the bin – ‘… that is edible.’
A laugh ripples through me. And he laughs too, his chest rising and falling, his dark hair cascading over his shoulders, which judder with mirth.
‘It’s a deal!’ I say.
‘Well, bonne journée ,’ he says, as he picks up his toolbag and heads out of the door, into the sunshine, and back across the road towards the tabac .
The three elderly men are waiting to debate the mechanics of the oven knob and whose solution was the best, I presume: they’re animatedly holding up their hands and making a point to each other, which may be the same point, but it seems to have caused great discussion.
‘Come on, now. I can do this. I can make something edible,’ I say, and find myself laughing again as I turn back to the oven.