Chapter 22
‘B ut why? I can help you! We can help each other. If people come for bread, they may come for coffee. By the sound of it, you need the money to keep your tabac going just as much as I need customers so that I can stay here.’
He says nothing. I can see he’s not going to change his mind, but add: ‘I just feel I owe it to them, the names sketched on the walls, the etching of “ bijou ”, not to give up on the place. For it to be left to rot.’
He stops polishing again and I realise I may really have hit a nerve. ‘Don’t worry. I know you said you can’t help.’ I slide off the bar stool and pick up my bag, turning to leave.
‘And you?’ he says to my back. ‘What do you need from being here? An Instagram account, living the French dream? In an old watermill?’
My face darkens. I turn slowly to face him. ‘You know nothing about me, or why I’m here. I’m asking you to help me and in return I will help by trying to stop this whole village being shut up. I’m trying to keep the mill going, to keep it alive. I didn’t ask for insults.’
‘I apologise.’
A lump forms in my throat and I swallow. ‘I just need to make good bread.’
The three men look at Laurent, who clears his throat and says evenly, ‘The mill is important to me. It is my grandfather’s legacy. I want to see it kept for the community.’
‘Well, if I can’t get a visa, I’ll have to leave and that mill will be sold to anyone who can pay – not just to you, to anyone who can pay.
It could become a holiday let, a second home.
At least I was trying to bring it back to life for people to enjoy.
I mean, look at this place.’ I gesture to the empty square, the silent pétanque pitch under the shady plane trees.
‘It’s empty. Sounds to me like you’re so busy thinking about the mill, you’re not making the most of what you’ve got. ’
The three men seem not only to understand what I’m saying, but nod and agree, looking at Laurent.
‘You help me, show me how to make the bread, and I’ll give you bread for your customers. You could offer sandwiches, jambon-beurre, salade .’
‘ Rillette sandwich,’ says one of the old men.
‘ Poulet …’
‘ Avec moutarde …’
Laurent holds up his hands.
‘Okay, okay … If you want people to buy your bread, it needs to be different. Special. It needs that extra bit of love. You have to put in the right ingredients and follow your instincts, listen to what your heart is telling you.’
He looks at me. ‘But a bakery can’t operate without good flour. You need clear spring water – the water is very important. As are the salt and the yeast. But most importantly good flour. The right blend of grains.’
‘So how do I get it? Where?’
He shrugs. ‘There are flour mills, of course, most a little distance from here.’
‘What about le moulin ? What about the flour that used to come from there?’
Laurent looks at me and it seems he may just have let down a barrier.
‘I came back here for the mill, to try to keep it open for the community, for my grandfather’s memory.
But I left it too late. I should have returned earlier, when he was still alive.
It was my intention to buy it. But not everyone around here was pleased to see me back … ’
‘Claude?’
He nods. ‘We have history. Our family dispute goes back to my grandparents. I can’t forgive what his grandfather did to us. I won’t. But if you are to become associated with me, if I help you, he will see it as a battle, a war even. He won’t like his customers being taken from him.’
I consider this. Right now, I can’t think of anything I’d like more than Claude being hit where it hurts.
‘You came back here for the mill,’ I say evenly.
‘And I need flour from the mill. That’s all.
I don’t have to know what you mean by leaving things too late, or the family dispute you have with Claude.
I’m here for a fresh start. And what I need to make that happen, is flour.
Looks like maybe you have something to prove, too.
Maybe this is the chance you needed as well – a chance to lay any ghosts to rest.’
He narrows his eyes and the three men watch with interest. Then he says, ‘Are you serious?’
My pride may be bigger than my bank account, but I have no desire to go back to the UK . Not yet. This is beginning to feel like home. ‘Never more so. I’m not giving up yet.’ I stare at him, challenging him again – this time to say yes.
‘You are suggesting that we work together to get the mill up and running?’ he clarifies.
‘Yes,’ I say firmly.
A small smile creeps onto his lips and he laughs as if he can’t quite believe what I’m saying.
‘Just one thing,’ I jump in, determined not to make any more mistakes. ‘I’m not interested in you … romantically.’
He laughs again and I squirm. ‘Really, I’m not looking for anything like that,’ he says.
I joke back: ‘You don’t need to have a middle-aged woman fawning over you and your good looks.’
He raises his eyebrows. ‘You think I’m good-looking?’
I laugh. ‘You don’t need me to tell you that. But just so we’re clear, I’m here to find my passion in baking. We both want the boulangerie to work, you for the mill and the tabac , me for my visa. Understood?’
‘Understood,’ he says.
‘So?’
He shakes his head again. ‘I wish I could say yes but, I’m sorry, I don’t think it can happen.’
I throw my hands up in frustration. ‘You just said you understood!’
‘I do, but I am sorry, I don’t think it can happen.’
I let out a long sigh of disappointment and leave.
As I do, I look towards Madame B sitting in the window and understand that she wasn’t dismissing me: she was directing me, telling me what I needed to know, that the answer is in the mill.
If only Laurent had agreed to help. But now I’m out of options.