Page 11 of The Village Cafe in the Loire

The area around the airport was a little shabby, but as they drove farther out and into the countryside, the buildings fell away and she found herself looking over wide fields full of sunflowers, grassy meadows peppered with brown cows; the cars on the road thinned and the sleeker cars of the city gave way to older, clapped out rust buckets, some of which would have been consigned to the scrapheap back home.

They got caught behind tractors that looked flimsy, paint-chipped and old; a couple – neither of whom looked like seasoned cyclists – on a tandem bike of all things; at one point the driver had to stop because a couple of cows had made it through the pathetic wire fence and were chewing on grass at the side of the road. The driver got out and flapped his arms alongside the farmer to get them back into the field.

The whole time, Becky’s eyelid was doing its stress-dance. And she didn’t blame it, actually. Taxis were meant to take youfrom A to B with minimal fuss and while Jean-Luc, her driver, couldn’t be held responsible for the various hold-ups, she didn’t like his smiling acceptance of each delay, his nonchalant shrug when she reminded him she was on a tight schedule.

‘Ah, well you might need to loosen this schedule,’ he’d said, seemingly amused. ‘I think you will find that things do not always go very fast here.’

‘You’re not kidding,’ she said to herself, leaning on her hand and trying to relax as she took in the countryside. In reality she wasn’t on any sort of schedule, certainly not a tight one, but she was hard-wired to hate wasting time in taxis and on transport when she could be Doing Something of more value.

Still, once she surrendered to the fact she had little or no control about the speed or efficiency of her journey, she felt something inside her relax. Leaning her head on the edge of the headrest, she looked out over the scenery, feeling a little as she had as a child, sitting in the back seat and watching the open, grassy fields undulate towards the horizon, wondering at the odd tower or half-concealed building en route. And for a second she allowed herself to believe that she was ten again, that her father was alive and driving them to Maud’s, her mother – a slightly more relaxed version of her current self – sitting alongside him, sometimes putting a hand on his arm, or passing him a toffee.

The next thing she knew they were passing a sign reading ‘Vaudrelle’and she had to snap back to reality. The one in which she was alone. And thirty. And on enforced sick leave.

The village was both strange and familiar at once. The stone buildings, the little back streets, the tiny fountain; the small town looked like many they’d passed through, but something stirred in her as she took in the surroundings, all bathed in warm sunlight which bleached the stonework and threw dark cool shadows onto the road. She wound down the window and freshair flooded into the interior, bringing with it the scent of pollen and cut grass – and possibly the whiff of croissants, although that was probably wishful thinking, she thought, as her stomach growled.

Yes, she could handle a week or two here. Hopefully after she’d sorted the house stuff she could take a bit of a break, maybe reminisce about the old days. Perhaps learn to relax, take in a bit of French culture?

Plus, she thought, she could probably make a fortune on the café once she’d turfed out the unwelcome lodger. She was willing to bet nobody in this little backwater knew anything about marketing; properties were probably advertised locally, sold by word of mouth. She could get a great agent on this and really open up to some people with money who wanted to embrace a little authentic French living. Soon her brain was ticking over numbers and she was fantasising about her new flat. And she felt, at last, more like herself again.

The taxi slowed and turned left along a small road with a few shops dotted here and there – theboucherie, the florist, some kind of tiny nursery or crèche. And yes, there it was,La Petite Pause, its sign slightly paint-chipped and faded, but instantly familiar in its purples and whites. She had a flash of memory – her great-aunt smiling, welcoming them, ushering them inside. Holding out her hand for Becky’s and taking her through the flag-stoned café and up a staircase to the living quarters above. Her own bedroom, the small, neat box room with its painted cladding and the Blu-Tacked drawings she’d created on former holidays. Mum and Dad’s smarter guest room next door. And Maud’s room which she’d sometimes entered in the morning, cradling a cup of tea made by Dad as carefully as if it were made of crystal.

‘Are you OK,madame?’ the driver said softly, and Becky realised she’d been sitting entranced, lost for a moment in thepast. She shook her head as if to dismiss the memory – this kind of nostalgia didn’t help anyone – and smiled thinly.

‘Yes. Sorry,’ she said, opening the door and stepping out into the warm, sunlit air.

It was the work of a moment for the driver to get her small, wheeled case from the boot and then he was gone, meandering back to the airport with seemingly not a care in the world.

It was quiet on the street, but she could see even from outside that there were a few patrons in the café, that an ‘Ouvert’ sign was hanging in the glass of the purple-edged doors. She felt a shiver of unease – she’d had no idea the café was open, and no idea what this meant. Was there a manager she’d have to befriend or dismiss? Was the lodger responsible for running the café? Would the spare room – that she’d assumed would be left empty – actually be occupied, forcing her to stay in the tiny box room or pay for a hotel? Where were the profits going? Who was responsible for it all?

She pushed open the door, meaning to walk past the few populated tables and ask to speak to someone, but the minute she stepped inside the buzz of conversation dropped to nothing. Each and every head swivelled to take in her high heels, smart black trousers, neatly buckled coat. Beret. She’d known on some level the beret was a bad idea – a bit tooEmily in Parisprobably.

Well, Becky,she thought,I have a feeling we aren’t in London any more.

Before she could ask them what they all thought they were looking at, the people turned and resumed their conversation, having decided clearly that although she was a stranger, she really wasn’t worth pausing a coffee break for.

5

Rather than let the intimidating atmosphere ofLa Petite Pauseget to her, Becky put back her shoulders and walked up to the coffee shop counter, behind which a man was preparing an espresso for a customer. As she waited, feeling both impatient and nervous, she took in the dull decor, the old, worn wood, original floor tiles. The tables that didn’t match and the individual chairs made in a variety of woods and finishes that definitely hadn’t been bought as a set. It was quaint, but more than a little run-down.

The air was thick with the smell of roasted coffee beans and the rumble of conversation. An occasional exclamation pierced the air as confidences were exchanged or anecdotes relayed. It had a homely feel, but other than that wasn’t a patch on the light, bright, modern coffee shops she was used to. Even the ones which purported to be years old, or traditional, or even French, opted for a more polished look.

Many of the customers wore boots – either of the wellington or thick walking variety. There were a couple of women with pushchairs sipping espresso. But they didn’t look like the coiffed ‘yummy mummies’ who populated the café around the cornerfrom Becky’s flat – they looked pretty and young and energised, but without make-up or heels.

At last, the man finished serving the customer before her and Becky had his full attention. ‘Bonjour,’ she said, trying not to smile at his beaming face. This was no time to be friendly, she was on a mission.

‘Bonjour, madame.’ He smiled, then rattled something off in such rapid French it was impossible to keep up. His dark hair was neatly combed, but the neatness was jeopardized by an untamed curl at the front that stuck slightly in the air. His eyes were dark and warm, and she found herself smiling back in spite of her determination to be ruthless.

‘Can you speak any English?’ she asked him. It put her on a back foot, having to ask this. Although she’d mugged up on some of her schoolgirl French on the plane, hearing it fired at her with conversational rapidity, instead of being written clearly on a screen, threw her completely. But it was what it was, she decided. She had no need to speak French in her real life. Anyway, she’d managed so far thanks to Google and a bit of paraphrasing.

‘Oui, a little,’ he said. ‘Would you like a coffee?’

‘Yes please,’ she said. ‘Cappuccino, if that’s OK?’

He made a face. ‘I can do acafé longwith a little milk?’ he suggested.

‘That will do.’ It seemed bizarre that a coffee shop didn’t serve one of the most popular types of coffee, but then again it seemed bizarre that the café was open at all four months after Maud’s death. She took a breath as he began to prepare her drink. ‘Actually,’ she said. ‘I’m looking for the manager.’

‘Oui, that’s me,’ he said, barely glancing up. ‘Is something the matter?’ He put the coffee and a little side-jug of milk in front of her and she took a rather dubious-looking sugar lump from a silver pot to add to it.

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