Chapter 37
T here is knocking on the front door, rousing me from my deep sleep.
‘ Oui, j’arrive ,’ I say, realising I’m automatically speaking French now and will have to change to English when I’m back home. Home … Where is home? Where will I stay?
I messaged Pete when I got back to the mill, letting him know that I was unlikely to get my visa to stay on, so would be making plans to come back. Pete replied, Are you sure? Isn’t there any way for you to stay? Which took me by surprise.
I wish there was , I typed, making it clear my heart is still very much here.
Let me know if I can do anything to help , he said, and I realised he’s not waiting for me to come home. We’ve both had a taste of a different way of life, one without the other in it, and we’re happy.
Bang, bang, bang comes the knocking, and I stumble from bed, where I’ve been napping, down the wooden steps and through the main room to pull open the door.
It’s Madame B.
‘ Bon après-midi ,’ she says. ‘Come, we have somewhere we need to be.’ She puts out her cigarette on the ground with a flourish of her foot, then picks up the stub.
I get my bag and close the door behind me. ‘Where are we going? What’s going on? Is it the boulangerie ?’
‘You’ll see,’ she says, walking beside me in smart red shoes with gold buckles, matching her trademark red nails. The ends of her short silk scarf catch in the wind. Bibi trots along beside her, taking in the smells, clearly enjoying the change from being in the apartment all day.
We arrive in the square after our short walk, and there, outside the boulangerie , is an old bicycle, propped against the window.
My spirits dip. As kind as it is of her, the bicycle won’t help me do bread rounds big enough for whole towns.
Then I hear jovial voices and laughter. Beside the tabac there is a building with two garage doors, a fading sign over one, indicating it was once a car mechanic’s workshop.
There, in front of the dark blue, worn wooden doors, stand Gilles, Hubert and Eric, beaming.
‘What’s going on?’ I ask.
‘You’ll see,’ says Madame B, reverting to her usual clipped tones and lighting another cigarette.
I look back at the boulangerie to where my car is parked in front of it, dented at the front.
They must have towed it back for me while I was napping.
It’s so good of them. I should have gone with them.
‘That is really kind, merci ,’ I say.
‘No, that is not it.’ Madame B turns back towards the big wooden doors of the garage.
‘ Allez! ’ Madame B commands, waving a red talon.
The three men step forward and start to pull back the dusty wooden doors, their paint peeling, under the faded sign.
As they do, I sense Laurent has come to stand behind me.
I can feel him without having to turn. I wish I didn’t, but I do.
I can smell him, coffee and sunshine – a scent I am coming to find familiar and comforting mixed with that of the mill when the grain has been freshly ground.
‘Come on, put your backs into it,’ he jokes in French, and rests a hand on my shoulder.
My nerve ends stand to attention and my stomach feels as if the kingfishers are darting from one side of it to the other.
But the doors are stiff and Laurent skirts around me to help.
They eventually pull back, and the men stand and smile.
I have no idea what we’re looking at. It’s a deep building, with tools on a bench down one side, beams overhead.
Gilles walks in and my eyes adjust to the darkness within as he starts pulling at a tarpaulin. The other men go to help. I step forward, curious as to what they’re doing and baffled as to why I’m here to witness it.
Finally, the tarpaulin is released and comes away, landing in a pile on the concrete floor, and there, staring back at me, are two big round eyes.
Well, they look like eyes, but they’re actually headlights – round headlights on the front of an old van.
It almost looks as if it has a personality of its own.
There are suddenly raised voices as Gilles shouts enthusiastically that he has found the key.
He climbs into the driver’s seat and takes hold of the wheel, puts the key into the ignition and turns it.
There is a murmur of life and the men cheer.
I have no idea why I’m here, but their excitement is infectious.
Gilles tries the engine again. It murmurs and dies.
Then, with lots of shouting to each other and help from Laurent, they push the van out of the garage, into the sunlight and onto the forecourt.
‘ Allez, allez ,’ calls Gilles, and instinctively we get behind the cream van and help to push it down the little hill.
‘ Allez, allez ,’ we call, as the van rumbles down the gentle incline in the road. We stand back and watch her go. As she nears the end and turns left towards the old mill, she belches into life, and everyone cheers.
We wait under the plane trees in the square, wondering if Gilles is going to return.
‘Well, I’d better be getting back,’ I say to Madame B.
‘What? No, you cannot go yet.’
‘I’m not sure they need me to help.’
‘Gilles was a mechanic. He’ll get it going, you’ll see.’ She’s smiling.
‘That’s great. But I need to start making plans. Next week, I’m meeting the mayor and I won’t have been able to do what I said I could. I’ll have to leave France.’
‘But Gilles is doing this for you – so you can stay.’
‘For me?’
‘Yes. Instead of your little car. When I asked Gilles to open the old garage to get my bicycle out where I had stored it, he remembered the van. It’s been mouldering in there for years, ever since he closed the business. He’ll get it going again and you can take the bread to the markets.’
‘What?’ My jaw drops. ‘A bakery van?’
‘Yes, exactly. A bakery van. I will bake and you will take the bread out to the markets. The people will much prefer to buy from a bakery van than a vending machine! It’s what they were used to.’ She beams.
‘But … why would he?’
‘He says the bread has changed his home life. Life in the village. It is a thank-you. Everyone wants to help. And …’ She raises an eyebrow, and a small smile tugs at the corner of her painted lips ‘… let’s just say he always had a soft spot for me.
He is happy to see me out of the apartment.
’ And then, more seriously, ‘Not that I would ever feel the same way. Just don’t tell his wife.
’ Her face softens and glows. ‘He asked her to marry him after I turned him down. There was never anyone for me except Raoul, even if it was all in my head.’
‘And in your heart,’ I tell her. ‘You loved him. He just wasn’t in a position to love you back.’
There is a rumble and a crunch of gears, and Gilles appears from the corner at the top of the village, clearly having done a loop around it.
The cheers gather as he pulls up in front of the garage next to the tabac .
He climbs out and walks over to me, grinning.
‘We’ll get her ready for the road, don’t worry.
You’ll have wheels. It may take a day or so, but she’ll be fixed. ’
‘Really?’ I stare at him, then at the vintage Citroen van, and feel as if I’ve fallen in love. ‘She’s beautiful,’ I say.
I walk slowly around the van and can’t help but put out my hand and run it over her cream, corrugated sides. She needs a good clean, and she has some marks on the bodywork, but nothing major. ‘She’s beautiful,’ I repeat.
‘She?’ Laurent laughs.
‘She’s definitely a she!’ I look at her dents and scuffs.
‘She’s a little battle-scarred,’ he says.
‘Aren’t we all?’ I say quietly.
‘But still beautiful,’ he adds. I turn back to face him and feel a rush of affection for this man.
‘She will help us get the bread out there,’ says Madame B.
‘But how can I pay for her? I need every euro right now.’
‘It was owned by a local man, delivering groceries around the villages. But he died. His wife left the van here in return for his garage bills. It is good to see it being used!’ says Laurent quickly.
There’s a bit of dust and mould inside, but nothing that stops me seeing what a beautiful little van this is, with its drop-down hatch on the side.
And I can see it now, covered with bunting and baskets of baguettes on the counter.
‘She’s perfect!’ I say. ‘Thank you! I’d better get cleaning!
’ I beam. ‘And merci , Gilles,’ I say, as I step forward and hug him – not what he was expecting, but he chuckles and pats my back.
We all spring into action. The three men lift the bonnet and start checking the oil.
I go to the boulangerie and fill a washing-up bowl with soapy water.
We spend the rest of the afternoon, the evening and the following day getting the van spruced up.
While the three men and Laurent work under the bonnet, Madame B, the three wives and I scrub with long-handled brooms and mops until she is gleaming and ready for her big day out.