Page 31 of The Village Cafe in the Loire

‘Non, I made them myself,’ he said.

‘You didn’t!’ He truly was talented.

‘Non,’ he said mischievously, ‘I didn’t. They are from theboulangerieas you thought. I am an artist with words, but not so much with pastry.’

She laughed. ‘You’ll have to let me read your stuff.’

‘In French?’

‘Ah, perhaps not. Maybe if you get a translation some time?’

‘You will be top of the list.’

She sipped coffee in silence for a moment, still feeling around the edges of what seemed to be the beginning of a friendship. ‘So, tell me about Maud,’ she said. ‘How exactly did you meet?’

‘Well, I came here from Paris, two years ago,’ he told her, leaning against the counter, the milk forgotten. ‘I was given the opportunity to be a writer in residence at theCentre d’Artsand everything seemed wonderful to me. But the placement ended after six months and I was no further forward with my work. I was embarrassed to go back to Paris empty-handed, so I rented a small room in Vaudrelle and was determined to finish my book and go back triumphant!’ He gave a wry smile. ‘Clearly this did not happen.’

‘Oh. I’m sorry.’

‘It is OK. I wasn’t ready then. My work, it was too shallow, too young. Now it is better, I think.’

She nodded. ‘So you met Maud in the café?’

‘Yes. Sometimes I would come here in the daytime. It was winter and my room was often very cold – I was a cliché of a poor writer, slaving away for my art. Maud would serve me coffee, andwe got to talk, and she was very sympathetic to me. She read some of my work and she said she liked it – perhaps she was just being kind? I am not sure. Then when my tenancy ran out, she offered for me to stay.’

‘That was nice of her.’

‘Yes. She was always a very kind person. And also, she told me that I could live above the café, instead of paying rent, which was kind. She became like a mother to me, perhaps. My own mother, in Paris, she wants me to work in a bank, or become a lawyer. And maybe I will one day. But I want to give this a chance first.’

‘Your mother doesn’t like your writing?’

He shook his head, smiling. ‘I do not know, she has never read it! My mother doesn’t think that being a writer is a proper job. She thinks I’m a silly boy.’

Becky gave a smile. ‘Well, I guess mums don’t always know best.’

‘Non, this is true. Anyway, over time I became Maud’s friend. And I saw that she was not just an old lady, but a kind person with a big heart. And perhaps a little lonely too.’

‘Oh.’

He shrugged. ‘Maud was very popular in the village. She spoke beautiful French, had many friends. But no lovers. And no family around. I think she sometimes felt that… absence. She would talk a little about you – your mother was her niece, yes? – and sometimes tell me that she was sad that you stopped coming to see her. Because she didn’t really have a connection like that – of blood – with anyone else.’

Becky laid down the piece of croissant she’d been attempting to eat, feeling rather sick. ‘I didn’t know,’ she said. ‘I suppose, I never really thought about Maud. I was so young when we stopped coming. I sort of forgot about her. Forgot to think of her.’

Pascal nodded. ‘It is easy to do this when we are young. We think that all adults have full lives and make the right choices, and that we have much to learn. Then we become adults ourselves and…’ He gestured to himself as if indicating that he was definitely an unfinished product.

‘Still. I should have written. Or come over when I was old enough. Just… well, not everyone in the family would have wanted me to.’ She couldn’t go into the issue of her mother right now. Pascal would never have time to serve coffee. ‘But it’s no excuse, really.’

‘You could go to see her now, to say sorry perhaps? It might make things feel a little better?’

She nodded. ‘I will. Soon.’

‘That is good,’ he said, softly. ‘I can take you, when you are ready.’

‘Thank you.’ She hated the thought of visiting a graveyard alone, scouring the headstones for her great-aunt’s. ‘And where will you go after this?’

‘I am about to open the café… then?—’

‘No! Sorry, I mean, after you leave here. Sorry, that sounds really crass. I’m not being… I don’t know, pointed. I just wondered what your plans are.’

---