Page 95 of The Village Cafe in the Loire

Maud sat forward slightly. ‘Do stand up though, won’t you? My legs are aching just looking at you in that position.’

Becky laughed, moved her legs so that she was kneeling, which was admittedly slightly more comfortable. ‘Maud,’ she said. ‘I want to look after the café. But I also want to look afteryou.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Come back,’ she said. ‘We can make adjustments to the living space. We can convert the sitting room into a room for you, downstairs – I’ve got a little money saved and we can get a loan if we need to. We can hire some help, and Amber and I, we can help too.’

‘But—’

‘You said yourself that there’s nothing wrong with your mind. And that’s completely obvious,’ Becky continued. ‘And you were right, perhaps you are no longer well enough to run the café. But with the right support, you could live there,bethere. Still be a part of it. And spend time with me too. We’ve lost more than twenty years. I don’t want to lose any more.’

‘Oh,’ Georges said into the silence. ‘But that would be wonderful—’ Maud held up a finger and he stopped talking.

‘My dear girl,’ she said. ‘What a wonderful offer. But I’m… things are not easy for me. I do need an embarrassing amount of help.’

‘I know. And it’s OK. I want to do it. We can get someone to help. But Maud, you belong in the café. That’s what made it what it is. Not the decor, nor the fact that you can speak French. It’syou.’

Maud’s eyes filled. ‘Oh Becky. That is such a kind offer. It really is. But I can’t let you do that. You’re young, you ought to be free. You don’t want to be encumbered with an old woman like me.’

‘I won’t be encumbered, Maud! If anything, you will.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean,’ she said, leaning and lightly brushing a tear from Maud’s cheek, ‘I’m going to do my best to fill your shoes, but I can’t do it without your help.’

‘Really?’ said Maud. ‘You really need me?’

‘Come home,’ Becky said. ‘Come home, Maud. Please.’

36

Becky rested the paintbrush in the tray and stood back to admire her work. Maud’s new bedroom, a repurposing of the downstairs sitting room that Becky had only ever used once since coming, looked immaculate. Some more of her photographs were displayed in wooden frames on the walls, as well as some more ordinary photos found in albums. Maud as a child, Maud with her parents. Maud accepting her law degree. An unfathomably young Maud wearing a long floral dress, standing outside what was to become the café. Becky had added a picture of herself as a child with Maud, sent over by her mother, and a picture of them drinking from the new mugs in a recent café visit.

She’d hoped that Cynthia might come over, see the place for herself. But Mum wasn’t ready yet. Still, she was softening, and Becky was convinced it wouldn’t be long.

On the side table, Pascal had forced Becky to display her drawing of the café too, in a little ornate frame. She’d been embarrassed at the idea, but had eventually acquiesced. Now that it wasin situ, she could see it had been the right decision.

Amber poked her head around the door. ‘Do you guys want coffee?’ she asked.

‘Ah, do you mind?’ Becky said.

They’d employed a young girl from the village to help in the café while they spent time organising Maud’s living space and getting it just right. They’d had occupational therapists in to assess her needs, bought relevant equipment. But tried, too, to keep it looking like a room rather than a medical facility.

An arm wrapped around her waist and Pascal pulled her close. ‘I think what you are doing is amazing,’ he said.

She turned, kissed him lightly. ‘Thank you. Although I meant what I said. It wouldn’t be the same without Maud here too.’

It had taken six weeks to get everything ready, longer than she’d expected. But she’d learned not to be in such a hurry about it all. It had taken some time to organise the seemingly endless paperwork for Maud’s release. And to get the rest of the place ready. With her blessing, Becky had repurposed Maud’s upstairs bedroom for herself and Pascal had kept his room; although they usually spent nights together, it was important to have their own spaces for now. He travelled by train to Paris when needed, then squirrelled himself away to write his next book. ‘Vaudrelle is perfect,’ he’d told her. ‘I don’t think I could have written so well in Paris. It is too noisy!’

‘I’m sure you could have.’

‘Well, maybe. But there are other reasons to love Vaudrelle too.’

Amber, six weeks into her new life in France, was looking well too. Becky kept a watchful eye on her friend, but could easily see how relaxed she now was. They were learning to get there together – to slow down their pace and take time to live as well as work. And it was good.

Becky had invested in an easel and sketchbook and now spent some of her time drawing almost every day. So far, most of her drawings ended up as balled paper in the trash. But she knew she was improving. And, what amazed her, is that she feltshe’d still be drawing even if she wasn’t getting better at it. ‘It’s the journey, not the destination,’ she’d remarked to Amber last night as they’d sat after closing time sipping red wine. ‘Who said that?’

‘Pretty sure it came fromJerry Maguire,’ Amber had replied, rapidly looking it up on her phone. ‘Oh. No. it was actually some sort of American philosopher called Ralph.’

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