Page 23 of The Village Cafe in the Loire

‘This is very sad to hear.’

‘What I mean is,’ she tried to correct, ‘I’m more relaxed when I’m busy.’

The downward inflexion again. Pascal nodded. ‘OK, as you want.’

‘Yes. Precisely,’ she said firmly, not quite appreciating the amused smile this provoked in Pascal.

‘Well, let me know how I can help,’ he said, filling a large wine glass with an inch or two of deep red and pushing it towards her. He grinned, lifting his own to her. ‘I suppose this means you are my boss.’

The next day, she set her alarm for six – an hour and a half before the café opened.

Waking in the room that had been hers for several childhood holidays still felt odd, momentarily disorientating each time she woke. But she couldn’t have slept in Maud’s room. She’d peeked into it last night, seen the neatly covered bed, the dressing table with an ornate mirror. Maud’s things – some brushes, a littlemake-up – scattered over the top as if she’d simply walked out and would be back any minute. She’d shut the door, feeling the pricking of unwanted tears. She’d leave the room as it was for now.

Pascal was in the middle room, next to hers. The one she’d used to creep into in the night when she was scared, to seek out her dad’s reassuring cuddles. She was desperate to see whether it, too, was almost the same as she remembered. But the door had remained closed and she didn’t want to snoop. (Well, admittedly, shedid, but had managed to restrain herself).

And then there was her own room with its tiny bed, chest of drawers and the view out of the back, over the properties that peppered the next road and beyond, to the lush countryside she remembered feeling so excited by when she was younger and more energetic.

Once up and dressed, she made her way quietly downstairs and started by taking an inventory – chairs, tables, cups, spoons. She looked at the range of coffee (exactly one blend), checked the fridge which, despite its outward appearance, was spotlessly clean inside, and the menu – just what was scribbled on the chalkboard. She wrote down a list of the things she’d want to start off by finding. The right colour palette. Someone local who was handy with a paintbrush and needed some work at short notice. Maybe a few paintings.

Last night, she’d taken time to chat to Pascal a little more and, despite her initial misgivings, had decided he was a good bloke. A little too attached to the eccentric wishes of her late aunt? Possibly. But nice all the same.

‘How long have you worked here?’ she’d asked.

‘Ah, I do not consider it work,’ he’d said. ‘Your aunt let me stay in exchange for a little labour. But I also write – that is my passion.’ He’d made a fist and lightly tapped his chest twice foremphasis. ‘When I am done here, I hope I will have my novel ready too – I am on the final ten thousand words.’

‘That’s a lot to do.’

‘What is it you said?’ he’d asked, his head slightly askew. ‘Relaxation is overrated?’

It was hard not to warm to him.

She still felt a little annoyed at her enforced break in France, but decided to make the best of her lot. After all, she had been forcibly removed from her workplace, so she might as well be here as somewhere else.

Last night in bed, she’d spent some time online looking up properties for sale in the local area. Most had been purely residential, but there were a few B & Bs and other businesses listed. She’d made a few calculations and very loosely decided that getting the business shipshape might help to net her a few more thousand in the asking price when it came to it.

For now, she’d have to dip into her savings – she didn’t have a great deal of money, but it would only be tied up in the café for a short while – to get things moving along quickly.

Now, standing in the empty café, she felt a little strange. It was light outside, despite the early hour, but the street was almost silent. She walked around, pushing back the wooden shutters, imagining the many times her great-aunt must have done the same. Over the past few days, she’d thought about Maud a lot, trying to clutch some of the dusty half-memories that she had of her, thinking more about what she’d been like. Before she came, she hadn’t been able to remember much about what they’d done when she’d visited as a child – other than a few trips they’d made. A garden somewhere? Visiting a chateau that looked straight out of a child’s picture book, with cream stone walls and grey-topped turrets, and costumed figures depicting a fairy tale within. She had vague memories too of a winery where Mum and Dad had got quite giggly during a tasting, and she’dbeen allowed a crafty sip of red that had put her off alcohol for another decade.

Now she was here, although actual memories were vague and fleeting, she could remember how being with her aunt had made her feel. Away from the rather strict upbringing at home where Mum was firmly in charge and only the best was good enough, she’d been able to relax. Things that were of the utmost importance back in the UK – not putting feet on the seats, washing sticky fingers, having a bath every night – hadn’t seemed to matter so much here. Bedtimes, too, had gone out of the window – she remembered staying up for a meteor shower, lying back on a bench in the dark garden, her head in her mother’s lap, waiting for the next brilliant flash in the inky sky.

Perhaps it hadn’t been her mother though, who wasn’t particularly into sitting, or snuggling, or watching anything going on in the night sky, come to think of it. So it must have been Maud whose floral skirt she’d laid her head on, Maud’s hand stroking her hair.

Out of nowhere, she felt a rush of tears and choked them back. This was the problem with not having a job, she realised. Too much thinking time. Perhaps Mum was right about relaxation. It was all very well if you were the sort of person who actuallycouldswitch off, relax. But someone like her – probably like her mother too – needed to keep moving, stay one step ahead of the introspection and dwelling that came in these silent moments.

The café floor was now flooded with sunlight. Dust particles danced in the air, and she could see how everything – the tables, tiled floor, even the countertop – was in need of a good deep clean. She’d had no intention of starting work yet, but still feeling a little agitated, she made her way to the kitchen and found some cleaning materials, a large plastic bucket, string mop, sponge. She filled the bucket with hot water and detergentand set to work scrubbing surfaces with the sponge, wringing out water, paying attention to detail. Soon the musty, coffee-filled smell was replaced with the sharp tang of lemon.

Then she began on the floor. She’d taken off her jumper by now and it was tied around her waist. Her T-shirt was drenched with a combination of splashed cleaning products and sweat. She changed the water twice, kept going until the tiles began to reveal themselves – bright red and cream, under what must have been weeks of dust and dirt. She wondered when they’d last been properly scrubbed, and couldn’t help but wonder whether Maud’s had been the last pair of hands to wield the mop.

Once finished, she ignored her aching limbs and dry mouth and climbed the stairs to the funny little bathroom. Washed and dressed half an hour later, she made her way outside where her booked taxi was already waiting. She’d called ahead to secure a van and hoped, with a mixture of English, franglais and French, that she’d managed to book a suitable vehicle. From there, she’d head to Tours and buy everything she needed to make the café her own. After that? Well, the sky was truly the limit.

And it was so beautifully blue, she thought, as she watched the early morning sunlight hit the patchwork of fields that lay beyond the village. The roads were quiet, the taxi driver listening to some music on low. It was a moment of absolute peace. For the first time, she realised how much her body ached, how much the last few days (and probably the months preceding) had taken out of her.

Well, she was in France, she thought. The perfect place to recharge her batteries. Who knew? After her café renovation she might even have time for a little holiday.

9

An hour later she was feeling less confident and definitely less relaxed. She’d never seen the road from this angle. Compared to the small cars she’d driven in the past, the van she’d hired was enormous. Add to this the fact that she had to drive on the wrong side of the road along a route she’d never travelled before, and it made the hour-long journey to the out-of-town retail park she’d earmarked seem both terrifying and precarious.

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