Chapter 38
T he next day, I’m as excited as a child on Christmas morning.
I hurriedly get dressed in a light cotton jumpsuit, and instead of putting my scarf around my neck, like Madame B does, I tie it around my head to keep my hair off my face.
I may not look French, but I feel more like me than I ever have.
I walk quickly through the darkness before dawn, the moon lighting my way to the bakery where the orange glow spills out, letting me know that Madame B is up and the ovens are on.
Outside the tabac , on the old garage forecourt, I can see the bakery van.
I’ve named her Dolly after Dolly Parton, who always wears her heart on her sleeve, a bit like my van with her touched-up scuffs and bumps.
She’s loud, fun and is going to bring lots of joy.
It suits her. I stop to run my hand over her bonnet and pat her, then head to the boulangerie .
But at the door, I see another baguette on the front step, laid upside down. I know it’s not a good sign.
I pick it up and go into the shop. This time I know exactly what to do to ward off any evil threats. I score a cross in the back of the bread, then open the door and toss it to the crows waiting on the square.
I’m not being scared off, no way. I have a bakery van to get ready.
Once the baguettes have been loaded into the van, I start the engine just as dawn begins to break, to a cheer from Madame B. Then, with a toot of the horn, I drive to the neighbouring town.
The women look at me warily as they arrive at the vending machine. I pull the side hatch down quickly and smile to encourage them, but the more I do, the more they seem to back off or walk away.
I take a piece from the plate of cut-up bread I’ve put out, and walk towards a small dog lying in the morning sunshine. I sit on a bench in the square, looking up at the church. I have no idea how to connect with these women. How can I be myself if they won’t even engage with me?
I start to eat the bit of baguette, tossing a little to the pigeons. The little dog approaches and I give him a small piece too.
‘Madame!’ I hear a sharp voice behind me.
‘ Désolée ,’ I say automatically, assuming I’m in trouble for feeding the dog, or the pigeons, or both. ‘I’ll go!’
‘ Une baguette, s’il vous plait ,’ says a woman, holding a half-eaten sample. Another woman has the plate and is passing it around.
‘It’s like we used to get from the mill,’ another is saying.
‘Its own unique taste.’
‘I remember it well.’
‘I will take two,’ says another woman.
I don’t need asking twice. I hurry back into the van and take their money, thanking them, and handing over baguettes.
The line of curious women grows and in no time I’m out of bread, shutting down the hatch and heading for home.
It seems curiosity got the better of them.
I just needed to let them find their way to our bread in their own time.
The next morning, Madame B and I bake twice as much in the hope I can make it to two towns, and again, in no time at all, the bread is sold out.
The vending machines are ignored. That afternoon, I plan which markets I can get to the following day to sell baguettes to those who would rather buy from the bakery van than a vending machine.
When I return to the boulangerie with an empty basket, I know what I have to do.
I must make my appointment with the mayor.
I add up the takings, deducting costs, rent and very minimal wages.
And we’ve done it, by the skin of our teeth.
The bakery van has brought us in all the business we needed this week, and I can proudly say I’m making a profit.
Okay, we need to start paying ourselves properly soon, but this month we have made money. And I cannot wait to show the mayor.
‘I’m taking Bibi out the back for a pi-pi ,’ says Madame B.
‘No problem,’ I say. ‘I’ll go to the bank when you’re back. And then I’ll make an appointment at the mayor’s office for next week to show our profits and agree my visa.’ I beam, and skip into the kitchen to finish clearing up.
The bell over the door rings.
‘ J’arrive! ’ I call happily and hurry into the shop, where I stop, suddenly feeling cold.