Chapter 31
W hen I wake the next day, I look up at the dark sky. It’s the silent time when night meets day, on its way in the distance. Even the neighbouring cockerel isn’t awake, still tucked up and not yet announcing morning.
Under a blanket of stars, I follow the torch on my phone around the building to my car. I leave the mill and drive up towards the sleeping village, past small terraced houses, their shutters tightly shut.
I can smell the dew after the warm night, settling on the hedgerow, among the glistening cobwebs, as I drive with the windows open along the lane to the square and turn right at the end of the road.
My heart skips when I see the lights on and a warm orange glow from the boulangerie window.
I pull up and get out, feeling the welcome of the lights drawing me in, like the beating heart of the town. I smile as I open the door.
‘ Bonjour, Madame ,’ I say. ‘You’re in early.’
‘ Bonjour, Juliet ,’ she says, emerging from the bakery, dressed in her usual smart pressed top, a silk scarf around her neck and a white apron. She steps forward and we kiss each other lightly on each cheek. I know now that without this formality there will be no further conversation.
When I’ve removed my light scarf from around my neck, she hands me an apron. The ovens are already on and I can hear their hum, but no one is banging today.
‘First, café ,’ she says, pointing towards the little kitchen. ‘And then, we will bake bread.’
We make the coffee and I look at the dough, ready and waiting.
‘The dough must be made the night before and left to rest. Like me, it needs its beauty sleep!’ She laughs. Her whole face has lit up – she looks younger.
‘So, the flour’s going to make the difference now?’
She looks at me steadily. ‘And the final ingredient.’
‘But you said there were only four.’
‘Four ingredients in the bowl, but the other is the most important of all. The weather. That is the savoir faire ,’ she says, with a flourish. ‘How do you say? … The know-how. You have to work with the weather or everything will be terrible.’
She smiles again, and this time I swear she gives a little wink.
‘That’s where I was going wrong. The first day I made bread and it worked, it was a calm, still day. The second time, it was windy, cooler.’
She nods. ‘We have to work with Mother Nature. She keeps us on our toes. Unless we listen to her, we will have nothing to eat. She is a strict teacher, but a generous provider when we adhere to her way of doing things.’
Bibi is sitting by the door, watching the world go by, or maybe keeping an eye open for the mayor’s cat.
‘I just wish I’d been able to do this myself.’
‘But it is you who have made this happen. You have brought both of the important things together here. The flour from Laurent, and from me the savoir faire .’
She smiles again. ‘Now, we will shape the loaves and sign them.’ She waves a small knife at me. ‘Don’t forget, we eat with our eyes first. They must look inviting as well as smell amazing. And then we will give them another rest, before cooking them.’
We put the dough through the cutting machine.
Then Madame B throws flour onto the work surface with a flourish, and side by side, we stretch out the dough and shape them, then put them on the baking cloth where they are tucked up next to each other.
Madame B reshapes mine, which are not to her exacting standards.
When the first lot of baguettes are proved and ready to go into the oven, she shows me how to spray them with water – just a spritz – as they go in.
‘For crunch on the outside,’ she tells me, shutting the ovens carefully, like closing the bedroom door on a sleeping baby.
‘Usually they take around twenty minutes. But I will leave them just a little longer, to get the crust dark,’ she says, setting the timer.
She wipes her hands on a tea-towel. ‘Now we will prepare the next batch, while these cook,’ she instructs, ‘and then we will have café .’ She claps her still-floury hands.
As we line up the next batch, the smell starting to fill the bakery from the ovens is amazing.
So much more enticing than when I was baking alone.
It seems to fill the room and wrap around me, like a hug, as we sip our coffee by the worn wooden shop counter, which has marks and dips from the years of people leaning against it.
Stopping to pass the time of day when they bought their morning baguette.
Taking time to enjoy sharing a conversation, passing on news, asking after loved ones.
I’m beginning to see what the mayor means.
These things can’t be replaced with a machine.
‘It’s time,’ says Madame B, standing upright, away from the counter.
We walk towards the ovens where the next batch is waiting to go in. She hands me the gloves. ‘You do it! I can’t look! It’s been years! What if I’ve lost my touch?’
And suddenly we’re both nervous. What if they don’t come out as they should? Will she be devastated? Have I unleashed feelings and emotions that should have stayed shut away?
She looks vulnerable, not the hard-faced woman I first met, shooing away the outside world, locked into her apartment with her memories.
I put on the oven gloves.
‘Hurry, vite ! You don’t want them to overcook. The crust must be just so …’ She waves at one of the big industrial ovens. ‘Open it,’ she says, standing right behind me.
I reach out, take the handle and pull.
Steam spirals out, enveloping us as I try to wave it away with the oven glove. The smell is fantastic. I feel as if I’ve entered a whole new world that fills every part of me with happiness.
As the steam dissipates, we peer forward. I take hold of the tray and slowly slide it towards us, aware that dropping the hot sheet of metal would be a very bad thing. I am holding someone’s dreams and memories in my hands.
She steps back as I pull the tray fully out and turn to the table behind us, gently lowering the tray onto it. Madame B has her manicured fingers over her eyes.
‘They’re fine,’ I say, then, louder, ‘more than fine. They look amazing!’ I take her hands and lower them from her face.
She stares at the loaves. ‘They’re perfect!’ she says quietly, and tears spring to her eyes. ‘Just as they should be. As I remember.’
And it’s like all the memories, the good ones, are rushing back in to greet her.
She reaches out to the baguettes, touching them gently with the tips of her fingers. She looks at me. A tear slides down her cheek. ‘They remind me of him.’
And not knowing whether it’s the right thing to do or not, I throw etiquette out of the window and hug her.
After a few sobs, and a sniff, she straightens.
I’m expecting a telling-off for not respecting tradition and manners, but instead she says quietly, ‘ Merci ,’ pulls a tissue from her sleeve and blows her nose.
‘Now, let’s taste them,’ I say. I’m about to rip the end off one of the baguettes but she is back to her chastising self.
‘No, Juliet. We must be respectful. This loaf has taken many hours to produce. It deserves to be given respect. Let’s put the next batch in and make some more coffee, lay the table.
’ She points to the little table in the shop window and I do as I’m told.
I put the coffee on, so the air starts to fill with the intoxicating scents of baking bread and hot coffee.
Could there be a better marriage? She finds a clean white apron and drapes it over the table, then puts out plates and a dish of butter.
Finally, she disappears to her apartment and returns with a jar of homemade rhubarb jam.
‘The baker’s table,’ she announces, and we pull up a chair each. I set out the cafetière with cups and a sugar bowl. We sit at either side of the table in the bakery window, just as daylight is creeping into the sky. The outline of the trees can be seen in the muted light.
I pour the coffee into two cups and pass one to Madame B. She accepts it, then offers me the loaf. I wonder what the etiquette is here. I lift my knife.
‘ Non .’ She tuts and waves a finger at me.
She takes the loaf back, tears off a piece and places it on her plate, then hands the loaf back to me.
I follow her example, ripping off a chunk of bread.
She lifts a piece to her nose and breathes in its aroma.
I do the same. It smells amazing – of wheat and warmth.
There is a shine on the crust, and inside, the pillowy crumb is white, soft and springy – like a deep, thick duvet I want to dive into.
I can already feel the comfort I know it will bring.
‘ Bon appétit ,’ she says, with a nod.
‘ Bon appétit ,’ I reply, and watch as she tears off a bit of the crust and slowly puts it into her mouth. She lets it sit on her tongue before thoughtfully chewing, her eyes slowly closing. I watch in fascination: I can practically see the memories playing out in her mind.
Slowly she opens her eyes. ‘Well, have you tasted it?’
I shake my head and follow her lead, tearing off a piece, enjoying the crack of the shiny crust, the softness of the crumb and the saltiness that follows, filling my mouth with flavour. Finally, I swallow. ‘It’s the best I’ve ever had,’ I say.
A smile creeps onto her lips. ‘ Merci .’
‘Really, Madame B, it is so different. And with just four ingredients?’
Her smile widens. ‘It’s all about the aroma, the texture and the flavour.
The thick crust keeps the inside fresher for longer.
A slower cook for a thick crust is how I like it.
And, of course, no preservatives in the yeast. It is all in the savoir faire .
And now I am going to teach you to do the same.
But, first, we will enjoy our café , and this piece of bread with good butter and homemade confiture .
’ She points to the pot of jam. ‘I have many jars of it!’ And we laugh.
We sit and spread light yellow butter on the bread and a thin layer of jam.
I bite through the not-too-sweet rhubarb, sinking my teeth through the cold butter and the pillowy dough to the crispy crunch of the crust. The mix of textures and flavours, sweet and salty, cold butter on warm bread, sweet jam on savoury butter and the salt in the bread to amplify all the flavours, is … heaven.
I sip my coffee and hear the beeper go for the next batch of bread. I stand up, looking out over the white netting that covers the lower half of the window.
Outside, I see one of the village women walking towards the bread-vending machine. She turns to look at the shop with interest. I raise a hand in greeting, but she doesn’t wave back, or stop to show that she’s at all interested, despite her snatched glances.
‘It’ll take time,’ says Madame B, with a shrug. ‘You have to earn their trust. The bread is at the heart of the dinner table. They will not turn their backs on their usual supplier.’
‘Well, we’d better start by opening the doors. Let people know we’re here and we’ve got bread to sell.’
‘And in the meantime, I suggest you put that bell back over the door to tell us when the customers arrive,’ she says, making us both smile.
We clear the table and pull the fresh baguettes from the oven, as warm and welcoming as the last batch.
I put them into baskets on the counter and then, as dawn turns to daylight and starlings sing in a nearby oleander bush, the sun pushes over the church spire and spills into the square.
I open the bakery door and wait for the customers to come.
They may not trust me, a British woman opening a bakery, but they will trust this flour and this bread.