Chapter 23
I ’m sat outside the big door to the mill, on the tree trunk there, which must have fallen in a storm.
I’m holding my cup in my hands, clutching it to me as I watch the morning light, promising a warm day to come.
I wish the kingfishers would appear and show me some kind of sign about what I should do.
I lift my face and breathe in the freshness of the morning air.
I message the family WhatsApp group, then Annie, telling her I’m waiting for the kingfishers, who are being shy.
I describe the colours of the dragonflies darting over the water and the hum of the bees, hard at work.
She sends a thumbs-up – at least it’s a reply, but her messages are less frequent, even though I know she’s enjoying hearing about life at the mill.
I have to keep going to have more news for her.
She is pushing me on. I hope my promise of getting her to the mill is doing the same for her.
I shut my eyes. In the background, I can hear the cars pulling up, doors slamming, the fisherwomen greeting each other.
They will take time to kiss each other lightly on the cheeks.
It’s a routine, a formality, one they won’t miss out.
It is considered, not rushed. It’s what keeps life ticking over in France.
Routine, formality, and taking time to enjoy the good, simple things, like fishing together.
It’s a simple pastime where they come together and quietly support each other.
Life here seems to be much more about actions than words.
It’s a way of showing understanding, of saying, ‘I know what you’re going through and I’m there for you,’ without having to use words.
Everyone needs support, just as I’ve needed Annie’s and I think she’s appreciated mine.
My photographs and updates have given her something else to think about.
We all need to lean on others who know how we’re feeling.
I have no idea why I thought I could do this on my own.
I can’t. I realise that now. I need support too.
If only Laurent had wanted us to do it together.
I hear the women walking up the side of the mill towards the lake.
I open my eyes, nod as they each raise a hand to me and wish me bonjour .
Clearly not as embarrassed as I am about them using my bread as bait and laughing at the British woman wanting to open a boulangerie .
Because they’re right. I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m just winging it badly.
I shut my eyes again, listening to the good-natured conversation as they make their way around the lake and set up for their Saturday fishing day.
As for me, I will have to make an appointment to see the mayor.
Tell him I tried, but it can’t be done. No one wants to eat my bread.
And I can’t improve it without the right flour and the …
What was it Laurent said? The savoir faire .
Even if I could produce a decent baguette, the villagers aren’t likely to break their habits.
Everything has a place in France and, no matter how much energy I put into the bread, I won’t be able to compete with Claude and his vending machine.
They won’t buy from me. I’m not French and I’m not a boulanger … and I can’t get anyone to help me.
Not unless you offer something different, or special . I hear Laurent’s words in my head. But I have no idea what else I can offer with the four ingredients used in making bread.
‘Okay, I’ll help you.’ I hear his voice.
‘If only that was the case,’ I say.
‘I will. I’ll get the mill running and we’ll make the flour. Something different. Something special.’
I spin round to see him standing there, tossing a euro up and over in his hand. ‘But you said it couldn’t be done.’
‘I didn’t say it couldn’t be done. I said it couldn’t happen.’
‘Well, yes, but if it can’t happen …’ I gaze at him standing on the grass beside the lake in jeans and a rugby shirt.
‘That doesn’t mean it can’t be done.’ He walks towards me.
I shield my eyes against the sun with a hand, looking up at him. ‘What made you change your mind?’
He steps forward. ‘You. And the writing on the walls.’ He comes to sit on the fallen tree beside me. ‘As I said, whatever went on here, they were my grandparents.’
‘Yes.’ I blush. ‘And I’m sure you didn’t need me to lecture you about honouring their legacy.’
‘No. But it was nice to find someone else who feels as I do, that doesn’t want the past to be forgotten.
Even if it wasn’t all good. It’s part of the journey to the here and now.
’ He takes a moment. ‘I should have come back earlier. I left it too late. I could have helped my grandfather before he died. I could have taken this place on.’ His voice is low and rasping, full of regret.
‘I made a mistake in not returning sooner, one that I’m not sure I’ll ever get over.
I was full of guilt. I’d already let him down once, and I did it again.
I was foolish to think that one day I might be able to buy this place to make amends.
I was trying to put right the mistake I made by not being here when he died.
He raised me when others who cared about me couldn’t.
’ He takes a breath. ‘I owed him everything.’
‘What happened to your parents?’
He looks out across the lake. ‘I never knew my father. And my mother died in a car accident when I was eight so I lived here with my grandparents.’
I hesitate, wondering if I’m being too intrusive, but gently ask, ‘And your grandmother?’
He turns the euro in his hand between his fingers. ‘She left for quite some time. Left me and my grandfather. She came back eventually, and my grandfather forgave her for leaving, but I never could. I couldn’t be that big.’
‘And now?’
‘Now, I try to put it behind me. But it still upsets me that she left my grandfather for another man. And left me. But more than that, my biggest regret was not returning here when my grandfather needed me before he died.’
His long dark hair falls away from his face as he turns to me. ‘But I think you may be right. Being here, doing this, it may be the way to lay the ghosts to rest.’
‘So? You’re going to help me?’ A smile is creeping onto my lips.
He lets out a long sigh. ‘Here in France, we do things with a little more subtlety,’ he says.
‘Let the answer come to you.’ A smile is pulling at the corners of his mouth, too.
‘But, yes, I’ll help you. Maybe I needed to be reminded of what I was doing here and why it was important.
It’s not just about the building, it’s about the flour, and the taste, which is unique to this place, to this village.
The bread now is nondescript. It could be from anywhere.
I wanted to keep the mill as a building.
When I heard you had bought it, I thought you would rip the heart out of it.
I wanted to hold onto it, preserve it. But what good is the building if it’s not producing flour? ’
‘But where do we start? I’m just a home cook. A cake-maker. Who clearly makes dreadful bread.’
‘The bread wasn’t dreadful.’
I raise a questioning eyebrow. ‘ Dégueulasse! That’s what they called it.’
‘Disgusting? Non .’ He shakes his head, then tilts it from side to side. ‘Bland, maybe.’
He laughs, deep and rich. A nice laugh.
‘But seriously,’ he says, ‘this is about honour. Getting the mill back up and running and the boulangerie in the heart of the town. This is about saying, “We’re still here.” We might be a small village, but we should not be forgotten or overtaken by a bakery from a neighbouring town whose owner sees what he wants and takes it, in business and in life.
’ I see his nostrils flare, presumably directed at Claude, which is something we have in common – although I’m not sure why he hates him, other than that he owns the baguette-vending machines.
But there is clearly no love lost between them.
‘We should not be invisible. We should be seen, because our village is worth it. My grandfather’s work here is worth it.
It is time we remember to celebrate what and who we are. ’
‘I couldn’t agree more.’ I smile. ‘So, where do we start?’
He hands me the euro. ‘With a euro to seal the deal. Remember, you never know when you might need it.’
As he places it in the palm of my hand, I get a shiver of excitement about everything that is to come. Maybe this will work out after all.