Chapter 36
‘Y ou sold out!’ says Madame B, as I present her with the empty basket when I return to the boulangerie the next day at lunchtime. She proffers a glass of water.
I’m hot and exhausted, but on top of the world.
I hand over my bag, weighed down with euro coins.
‘Vivianne was right. There were no baguettes in the vending machine this morning. The locals weren’t happy, but I gave samples to everyone waiting.
The women were hesitant at first, but when I explained that the mill and boulangerie are working again and using traditional ingredients, one lady at the front tried a piece and the rest followed.
I’d sold out by the time Claude was pulling up in his van. ’
Madame B giggles. ‘I bet he wasn’t happy when he turned up and you’d managed to tempt his customers away.’
‘I didn’t stick around to find out!’ I say, although I can only imagine the expression on Claude’s face when he went to restock the vending machine and didn’t find the queue that would usually be waiting there …
The following morning, I take the same route, having worked out which way Claude does his round.
I drive to the next town from yesterday’s, managing to beat him there.
Again, a small queue is waiting for the vending machine to be filled.
I offer the samples and, with no sign of Claude, they buy their bread from me.
On the third morning, I’m smiling as I pull up in another village with a vending machine, skipping the two I’ve visited over the past couple of days, and offer samples.
I sell out in no time, handing round the cards I’ve written to let people know where we are, but promising I’ll be back next week at their local market.
I wish I could find a way of making more regular visits.
My last customer takes the final two baguettes, and as she hands me her money, I hear beeping behind me.
It’s Claude, trying to move his van into the market square.
I give the woman some change and a business card, then quickly bid her good day.
The coins land in her hand safely, and I disappear into the market throng.
But as I do, the card flutters from my customer’s full hands and catches on the wind, which whips it up, then lets it fall.
I put my head down and carry on into the growing crowds of the market.
I snatch a glance back and see Claude pick up the card and read it.
I hurry to my car and get on the road home, my heart thumping.
At lunchtime, I’m with Laurent, at the tabac .
Madame B has made extra loaves for me to fill for people wanting sandwiches, walkers mostly.
Clearly word has got around and there’s an appetite for them, along with the mini Victoria sponges and chocolate and beetroot brownies I’ve made.
The soft, gooey chocolate squares, with extra richness from the beetroot, are sprinkled with icing sugar and seem to be going down a treat with my three taste-testers at the bar, already armed with their baguettes to take home for lunch.
‘You’ll need extra help at the boulangerie at this rate,’ says Laurent.
‘Maybe I will,’ I reply.
‘And you’ll be able to prove your income to get your visa!’
With the deadline looming, in under two weeks, I may be able to do it.
The next morning, I’m up and ready to drive to one of the small villages.
I know, if I leave early enough, I should get there ahead of Claude.
Once the loaves are out of the oven, I load them into my basket and I’m off, out of the village and down to the main road.
It’s warm already, and there are plenty of bees in the hedgerows bordering the narrow country lane.
I’m concentrating hard, counting up the number of baguettes I need to sell over the next fortnight, to prove my profits to the mayor, when I hear a car travelling up quickly behind me.
Too quickly, I think. There’s a blind corner coming up.
I move out into the road, just enough to ensure the idiot driver doesn’t try to overtake me on the bend.
I hear the engine revving, then the familiar beeping, and know exactly who it is.
My jaw tightens and my foot pushes a little harder to the floor.
I see him edging closer to me in my rear-view mirror, as is the bend in the road.
Claude’s edging out as if to overtake, and I move over to stop him.
The village is just around the corner. There is a chance I could still make it there first, if I can get the baguettes out quicker than he can empty and reload the vending machine.
Suddenly he swings out ahead of an oncoming car, then back onto my side of the road, cutting right in front of me.
I have to swerve violently, straight into the ditch, with a bump, bump, bump and a thump as the front end of my car slams into the ground.
I catapult forward, then back – shocked, but saved by my seatbelt – followed by a shower of baguettes from the back seat.
My heart hammers. I sit there for a moment, working out if I’m injured, as the van speeds off in a cloud of exhaust fumes.
I take a deep breath. I’m not hurt – my pride is wounded more than anything else.
I push open the car door and climb out, staring at the white van disappearing into the distance.
Frustration and fury bubble inside me. I reach back into the car and gather up the baguettes, straightening some and placing them back in the basket.
Only a couple are bent and broken. I still have plenty to sell, except it’s too late – Claude will have beaten me to the market and probably told the waiting queue that I won’t be coming today.
I look at my dented bumper and wonder how to reverse out of the ditch, with thorns and prickles scratching and stinging my ankles.
My phone pings with a message. There are two.
One is from Pete, asking how things are.
The other is from Annie’s husband, telling me she’s received all my messages, and he’s been reading them to her. She’s too weak to reply just now, but is loving hearing all about my adventure. He thanks me for providing them with a little escape from what’s going on.
Angry tears fill my eyes. I get back in the car, grab the ignition key and try starting the engine, hitting the accelerator with force.
It roars into life. I shove the gearstick into reverse, but the wheels spin, showering dust from the ditch.
I try again, harder, but they spin until the engine splutters and cuts out.
‘Damn!’ I say angrily, getting out of the car and slamming the door, fuelled by frustration and fury as I process Annie’s news. I hear a tractor coming down the lane and it stops beside me. It’s Hubert, one of the tabac ’s regular customers.
‘ Bonjour, Madame .’
‘ Bonjour, Monsieur .’ I manage to hang on to my manners even in times of trouble, I think, and smile to myself. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Helping my brother-in-law with some farm work,’ You have a problem?’ he asks, in stilted English.
‘You could say that. Claude ran me off the road. He doesn’t want me to sell at the market today …
or any other day,’ I explain, my voice more high-pitched, almost hysterical, because this is all madness.
‘I had to get there before him, to sell my bread, but he’ll beat me now, so I may as well go home. ’
Hubert looks at me. ‘Maybe he has beaten you to the next town,’ he nods straight ahead, ‘but not to the one after that. They have a market today too. Claude will be going there afterwards.’ He grins. ‘We can beat him!’
I laugh, and shake my head. ‘No, my car is stuck.’
‘We will come back for the car and tow it. First, we will take the tractor,’ he says, tapping the steering wheel. ‘How do you say? Across the country! He won’t beat us then. You have bread to sell. We need you in our village. I need your bread … and your Sandwich of Victoria!’
I laugh, but little tears well in my eyes and I’m not sure if they’re for me, Annie or his kindness. A feeling of belonging has come over me like I’ve never experienced before.
‘Come,’ he says, offering a hand to me.
I can’t quite believe I’m doing this, but I hold up the basket of bread, which he takes from me. Then he puts out his hand again and hauls me into the cab to sit beside him. Cross-country it is!
‘ Prêt ?’ he asks.
I’m not ready for any of this, but I’ll be messaging Annie all about it when I get back.
‘Why not?’ I say, laughing. ‘ Pourquoi pas? I’m ready.’
And with that, we’re bumping across the fields to the next town but one, where there is a queue by the vending machine.
Hubert gets down from his tractor cab and explains to those waiting that this is the bread being sold today and he can personally recommend it, along with all his neighbours in the village where it comes from.
It’s made with the flour from the old mill there, he tells them, by a baker who has come out of retirement to give the village its soul back.
The baguettes are sold in minutes and the queue disappears.
We’re laughing as we set off for home, passing a bemused Claude, who had just arrived in the square to find his regular customers leaving with their baguettes in hand. But these baguettes bear the signature of a different baker from him. These baguettes are made with love by Madame B.
Back at the village, I gather along with Laurent, Hubert, Gilles and Eric, Béatrice’s husband, at the tabac .
Madame B and Bibi come to join us, too. She has made more bread and I explain how Hubert came to my rescue as we hand round freshly baked, filled baguettes, jambon-beurre and tomate et Camembert .
Laurent fills a carafe with wine and puts it on the bar.
Everyone takes a glass and raises it to ‘ le baguette ’.
And when we’ve explained our escapade and laughed all over again, everyone leaves for home.
Madame B tells me she has an old bicycle that she will get out for me to use while my car is being fixed.
‘ Merci, Hubert ,’ I say.
‘ De rien ,’ he says. ‘And now you will stay open, yes?’
‘Well,’ I wince, ‘I don’t have a car right now …’ Or the money to fix it . ‘Or a tractor to borrow every day.’ I try to laugh. ‘And I’m not sure Madame B’s bicycle is enough.’ I’m making light of the situation, but inside I’m devastated. If I could just have kept going until the end of the month …
He nods slowly. ‘I understand,’ he says, and glances at Gilles, who does the same.
We clear away the remnants of lunch and I head back to the mill with the last of the day’s bread. With a wave to the fisherwomen, I stand outside. It’s raining, a summer shower.
I throw large pieces of bread into the lake, ripping up the baguettes. Tears trickle down my cheeks, mixing with the rain.
The ducks land and paddle happily, scooping up the bread. I have no idea if they should be eating it or not. I break off another piece and then, in frustration, just throw half of the baguette into the water, narrowly missing a duck that squawks and flaps its wings in indignation.
‘I don’t know what you do in your country, but around here we tend not to throw missiles at the wildlife.’
I whirl around and see Laurent.
I attempt to brush away the tears and can’t help but laugh at little. ‘Sorry, I wasn’t, I mean …’
‘I came to see if you were okay.’
I take a deep breath. ‘I’ve realised this has all been a mistake. The mill, I mean. I’m never going to be able to make this business work, and I should sell it to you. It’s yours if you want it.’
He sighs. ‘I’m afraid that may not be possible.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’m not in a position to buy right now.’
‘Really?’
He nods. ‘I had other ways I needed to spend my savings. Sorry.’ And with that he walks away, clearly as upset as I am.
I’m done.