Page 13 of The Village Cafe in the Loire

‘Ah! Of course! Writing! I have a letter. I will show you.’ He moved over to the corner of the room and opened a tin markedfarine,which seemed to contain a load of disparate papers. ‘Ah!’ he said, pulling out an envelope. He removed a piece of paper from it and, coming back to the table, laid it out, smoothing the creases where it had been folded.

The paper was lavender in colour and smelt faintly familiar. And the writing too – Maud’s scrawl from Christmas cards in years gone by, all the swirls and loops of proper cursive. ‘Oh,’ she said, feeling her heart shiver slightly in her chest. ‘She wrote this to you?’

‘Yes. But she wrote it in English, for me to show you when you came. Because she wondered, when we made this plan, whether you might have some questions.’ He turned the paper and passed it to Becky. As she picked it up, she felt a lump rise in her throat, but swallowed it down.

Dear Pascal,

This is to confirm that I would like you to stay in the café and mind the business for me once I am no longer around. I have made plans with my notaire to pass the building to my great-niece Rebecca, when this can be arranged. I realise that she may wish to sell it, but I have a request for her before she does so. Please tell her this when she gets in touch.

Becky, darling. Please try to run the café for a month. Then, if you do not fall in love, you can sell it with my blessing. But spend a little time here first. Remind yourself of the times we spent here together. And see whether it might suit you, even a little.

With much love,

Maud

Becky closed her eyes and remembered the woman she’d known all those years ago. The memory was patchy, made up both of photos she’d seen and her own individual experiences. There were glimpses of happy holidays, of fun times spent together. But the truth was, until recently, she’d rarely thought of her great-aunt. Ever since the falling out with her parents, Maud had barely been mentioned – the odd reference toMad Maud in Francewould be bandied about, but like many insulting terms, she hadn’t thought too deeply about it. It was just a fact: her great-aunt was a bit odd, she lived in France. They didn’t have anything to do with her.

It was sad that Maud had been thinking about her so often. Perhaps she should have taken the time to write, to return the odd Christmas card. Poor woman.

‘So?’ Pascal said.

‘So what?’

‘Well, you see it is your aunt’s wish for you to do this; it is acondition.’

‘But come on, Pascal, you know what old people are like! It’s all very well her having had this fantasy about me running the café, but it won’t make any difference to her whether I do or don’t, will it, in reality? And I’m so busy at work, and I need this place to sell. Because…’ To her horror, she realised that tears were welling in her eyes. ‘Can’t we just find a way to work this out?’

Pascal’s hand approached hers over the wood of the table, but he drew it back before it made contact, probably thinking better of it. ‘I am so sorry that you are sad,’ he said. ‘And if it were in my power to help, then I would. But this promise…’ He sighed. ‘Maud has been very important to me. She took me in when I had nothing. And I owe her this. I am sorry, Becky. But perhaps it will not be so bad?’

‘No! You don’t understand!’ Becky’s voice sounded a little screechy even to her. He sat back in his chair abruptly, eyes wide. ‘Sorry,’ she continued. ‘I’m just… I don’t know what I’m going to do.’ The tears came then, and she had no way of stopping them.

Becky wasn’t a crier. Her mother was always eager to tell anyone who’d listen that she hadn’t even cried when she’d broken her arm aged twelve. Just come into the house with the arm at a strange angle, looking pale and asking whether her mother had time to drive her to A&E.

But whatever she’d repressed in her younger years seemed to be coming to bite her now. It was too much. The work thing. The situation she’d put herself in by committing to the new flat purchase. The fact that unless she could sell the café, she could never afford it. A few months ago, everything had seemed rosy. Now it was falling apart about her ears. Plus, seeing Maud’s handwriting seemed to have awakened something in her.

‘Ah,madame, do not cry,’ Pascal said, standing up and hovering behind her, clearly not quite sure what to do. ‘I realisethis is not your dream. But it is not a bad life here. And a month, it will pass very quickly. Then, if you want, you can sell. I won’t stand in your way. And your aunt will be so very happy. It is not worth your tears.’

‘Then I blew my nose on a napkin,’ Becky said, relaying the whole sorry situation to Amber an hour later from the small room she’d last inhabited twenty years ago.

‘A proper napkin?’

‘Yep. Fresh-pressed linen.’

‘Well, not any more.’

Becky laughed, in spite of herself.

‘So,’ said Amber, ‘other than that, what’s the place like?’

‘It’s a bit run-down. But it’s so cute too. And upstairs, it’s just as I remember: Maud’s room; another that this guy, Pascal, is living in. I’m in the little room I used to sleep in as a child.’

‘Oh, that must be weird. Has it changed much?’

‘No,’ said Becky, walking to the wall where a few yellowed pictures were still hanging. ‘Nothing has.’

‘Wow. I think I’d feel… kind of strange.’

‘I do, a bit. I keep expecting Mum to come in. Or… well, or Dad obviously.’

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