Chapter 25
L aurent pushes off from the bank and the rain is pelting into my face, as if it’s punishing me.
I plunge the paddle into the water, deeper this time, and drag it back as we battle on, eyes screwed up.
I dig deep and pull on the paddle, and so does Laurent.
The canoe moves through the water, though not as quickly as I’d like.
We have to get back to the mill, or everything I’ve worked for so far, all the effort I’ve put into painting and clearing and sourcing furniture, will be for nothing.
It’s like we’re fighting against the clock when every pull on the paddle counts.
What am I doing in a small boat, on a lake, collecting firewood in the hope that a watermill can be repaired so I can make flour for bread?
I could be at home, watching reruns of All Creatures Great and Small and doing a jigsaw instead of battling across a filling lake to save my belongings and my investment from flooding. I knew I didn’t like being in boats!
But something in me keeps the tears at bay.
At least, I think they are – I can’t tell with raindrops sliding down my face.
I can feel the pull on my shoulders and the ache in my wrists as we keep paddling towards the mill, and then I see it.
The water has burst the banks of the lake and is flooding the lawn, which means it must be tumbling down the front steps into the mill.
Everything I have is in there. Everything will be ruined.
I put my head down and keep paddling, as Laurent told me to do.
Suddenly there’s a bump and we’re at the bank. I don’t wait to be told what I need to do next. I just do it.
‘Juliet, wait!’ I hear Laurent say, but I can’t. I have to get to the mill, try to stop the water coming in.
I launch myself from the canoe onto the wet, soggy bank. I cling to the sodden grass, my nails embedded in the soil, like my life depends on it. My fingers plunge into the earth and grip, allowing me to pull myself to my feet. And still the rain comes, pouring down.
I run around the lake to the lawn in front of the mill where, as I suspected, the water is pouring over the grass and under the green door into the main room.
I open the doors to see water seeping across the floor, pushing its way deeper and further into the building.
I run outside to Laurent, who is in the middle of the lake, the canoe upended with him at the rear, trying to get his weight forward to stop the thing sinking.
‘Shit!’ I say. ‘Laurent!’
I see my paddle floating towards the other side of the lake. I feel utterly useless. I wave my arms at him, although I have no idea why. ‘It’s flooding! The mill is flooding!’
He leans forward with all his strength and grabs the middle section where I had been sitting, then climbs up the canoe, putting his weight into the centre.
Slowly the bow lowers and he stands up straight.
But as he does, his paddles slides overboard.
He reaches for it, grappling and stretching, but it quickly drifts from his grasp.
He’s stranded in the middle of the lake, and shouts something at me.
‘What?’ I yell back. ‘It’s coming in!’
He stands up tall and puts his hands either side of his mouth.
‘I can’t hear you!’ I shout.
He points. I turn around, then back to him.
‘ OPEN THE SLUICE GATE !’ I hear him shout, clearly this time. ‘The gate, to the wheel! Let the water in!’ and I understand exactly what he’s telling me to do. I need to divert the water, let it run into the pit where the wheel is.
I run over to the gate. There is a round wheel at the top. I take hold of it and turn the handle, as fast as I can. It spins, but nothing happens. I turn it the other way, but still it doesn’t do anything. I try again, but the gate doesn’t move.
I look at the square bolt head in the middle of the wheel that should be catching and turning, but it’s worn and loose in its setting, spinning and slipping.
The gate won’t move. And as my sodden arms drop, I realise something.
I reach into my wet pocket and pull out the single euro.
I drop it into the hole where the worn bolt sits.
I twist the wheel again. This time it doesn’t turn at all. I’m exhausted.
I look back at Laurent and see him raise his hands into the air.
And then, in one swift movement, he dives from the canoe into the water.
He takes a few long strokes to the lakeside and pulls himself onto the bank, the muscles in his arms showing through the wet shirt that is clinging to his chest and shoulders.
You just have to keep paddling .
I turn back to the handle, give it one more twist and, suddenly, I feel resistance.
Then I feel it catch, the loose bolt not loose any more.
With the euro coin in there, it bites and starts to move.
My heart lurches. I twist it again, much harder, and hear the bolts start to move the mechanism, the sluice gate starting to shift. I carry on turning the wheel, hard.
Really hard.
The sluice gate moves upwards and I turn until, with effort, the gate is up and I hear a whoosh, followed by splashing. Water gushes, tumbling through the sluice gate into the dry pond, there to feed the wheel.
‘What’s happening?’ I hear Laurent call. It seems to have taken ages for him to get here. But, then, he did have to swim out from the lake where I abandoned him.
‘It’s open! The water’s flowing!’ I shout, but he can’t hear me.
He runs barefoot over the lawn, splashing across the wet grass – the lawn is struggling to cope with all of this water. Laurent’s clothes are soaking: his jeans are clinging to his thighs, and his T-shirt to his chest. He comes to stand behind me, making me shiver with delight.
‘You did it!’ He squeezes my shoulders.
‘I did!’ I beam as we stare at the water filling the pit.
His body is against mine and, despite the rain, I can feel its heat.
We stare at the pool as the water from the lake spills into it, rushing and gushing over the edge.
Together, we hold our breath and wait. I am shivering, cold, but hot with excitement.
And then it happens. A gentle creak, so quiet I don’t know if I’ve heard it.
And then again. I turn to look at Laurent’s face, close to mine over my shoulder.
A smile spreads as he runs his hand over his long hair and pushes it off his face – his attractive, kind face.
Oh. I do fancy him. I really do.
There is another creak and I drag my eyes away from his because my heart is racing faster than I know it should. I look back at the wheel. There is a longer creak and a groan and, suddenly, it begins to move. I can feel Laurent’s breath on my neck as he exhales with relief.
There is a squeak, then a louder one, and another creak.
A wobble. As the excitement in me grows, the wheel groans and moans as it starts to turn, like someone getting up out of an armchair they’ve been sitting in for too long.
But once it’s turning, it gathers pace, and the water pushes it harder and harder.
‘ ?a marche ,’ he says quietly.
‘It’s working,’ I whisper.
And then we watch as it stutters, stops and starts again. Then, like a toddler finding their feet, it begins to turn, slowly and steadily, discovering its rhythm.
‘It’s really working,’ I shout with elation, as I jump up and down and turn to Laurent.
‘ Oui! ?a marche! ’ He grins and I’m alive with excitement. He grabs my hand and, like teenagers racing from school for the long summer break, we run towards the mill door. There, we stop and stare as the recently oiled cogs begin to turn and the old mill comes back to life.
Suddenly, behind us, we hear clapping and cheering. We step back onto the flooded lawn. The rain has eased and the fisherwomen have clearly been waiting in their cars for it to pass.
‘ ?a marche! ’ Laurent shouts to them.
The women clap and cheer and shout, ‘Bravo! Bravo!’ clearly delighted to see the wheel turning again. And it’s not just the mill that has come back to life. I have too! I’ve never felt more alive – and Laurent is still holding my hand. I don’t want him to let go.
‘ ?a marche! ’ I shout, standing in the rain.
‘ Allez, allez, allez! ’ shout the fisherwomen.
Laurent turns to me, soaked to the skin, water running down his face, just as it is on mine. Behind us we can hear the gentle whoosh as water is scooped up and sends the wheel turning. We are beaming, staring at each other.
‘You did it!’ I say.
‘ We did it,’ he says. And we fall into a huge hug. When we release each other, he looks as if he’s about to kiss me, and I am drawn closer to his lips, but before I lose my head again, I pull away. And he follows. There is no way I can ruin this by going somewhere I shouldn’t.
We give a little cough.
‘This is great!’ I say, feeling I’ve shattered the moment, which is good.
‘It is, it is,’ he says, and there’s a hint of awkwardness between us.
‘Now we can start making flour!’ I say. ‘We can bake great bread!’
He nods sagely.
‘What is it?’
He runs his hand over his beard, where droplets of rain have gathered, like diamonds. ‘If only we had that recipe.’
And my heart plummets like a stone to the bottom of the lake.