by Karen Abbott
“Get out of here! Blackening my good name, you are!” Etienne grumbled.
“You never had one, Etienne Dupont! Don’t forget, I’ve known you nearly all my life!”
With the last word, mme. Giraud left the bedroom. When she was at the outer door, she turned and smiled at Lys.
“Take no notice of our bickering! He’d have another heart attack if I was polite to him!”
“How poorly was he really?” Lys asked anxiously, following her outside.
Madame Giraud’s face sobered.
“He had us all worried, I can tell you that. We thought he wouldn’t make it and no mistake … but he’s right in what he said. He wanted to see you … and your father, too, of course ... every father wants to see his son before he dies.”
“I don’t know where Papa is,” Lys faltered. “Is Grand-père still that poorly?”
“He’s doing all right, don’t worry. Another week in bed and then a few easy weeks or so and he’ll be as right as rain, just you see! Just don’t let that monsieur Fayau in to see him, that’s all. It was his last visit that brought all this on, I reckon.”
“Who’s m. Fayau?”
“Michel Fayau? A local good-for-nothing old rogue, that’s who he is! He wants to buy up all the properties around here but most of us don’t want to sell. We’ve all said no, but he doesn’t seem ready to accept defeat yet.”
With a reminder to Lys to collect their supper later, madame Giraud departed and Lys returned inside. Etienne had fallen asleep and Lys adjusted his pillows slightly, making sure that his head wouldn’t loll uncomfortably to one side. She then tip-toed away. She would ask him about Michel Fayau later, after he had awakened.
In the meantime, she decided to sort out her own sleeping arrangements and bring in her things from the car. She’d be sleeping in the room that used to be her father’s when he lived at home and the room they had shared as a family in those long ago days of happy family holidays before her parents drifted apart.
She emptied the boot of her car and carried everything inside. The same bed was in the small bedroom. Clean sheets had been laid on top of it and a selection of folded blankets. Hmm, no lightweight duvets here! Maybe she could use some of her allowance to buy one? And one for Grand-père, too, of course. She made up the bed and stored her clothes, a selection of trousers, shorts, short skirts, tops and two pretty sun-dresses with spaghetti-thin straps … though she doubted she would have the opportunity to wear the latter.
That done, she peeped in at Grand-père to make sure he was all right and then strolled outside into the still-warm air, appreciative of the stillness after the constant buzz of traffic and people in Paris.
Hands on hips, she critically made note of the face-lift that the buildings needed, giving no more than a passing glance to the car that was coming to a stop on the spare ground. She moved closer to the windmill. A bit of the sail crumbled in her hand as she touched it. It was riddled with weather rot. The two outer doors, on opposite sides of the windmill, weren’t in any better condition and slivers of paint from the wall of the circular mill flaked onto her fingers.
“As you can see,” a male voice spoke behind her, “the whole lot needs to be pulled down!”
Chapter Three
Lys turned around and found herself face-to-face with a man of thirty-something, dressed in a suit, collar and tie.
“I beg your pardon!” she demanded haughtily, not liking the derisive tone of his voice.
“The building is unsafe! It’s a danger to the public and ought to be demolished!”
“And you are …?”
“Leon Boudot, mademoiselle.” He held out his hand. “I am a borough surveyor and have been asked to give my opinion about the safety of this building to the local housing department. I am here to make a preliminary survey and advise my colleagues about what steps need to be taken to re-house m. Dupont. There is some concern about m. Dupont’s capability of looking after himself.”
Lys had taken hold of his hand but dropped it as if burned as he continued to speak. She took a step backwards.
“Re-house my grandfather? Are you mad? It would kill him if he had to leave here! There must be some mistake!”
She waved her hand towards the windmill and cottage. “The buildings aren’t that bad! I know they need some work doing on them but there’s no way they need to be pulled down!”
“That is what I am here to determine, mademoiselle. And you are …?” m. Boudot imitated Lys’s own earlier question, his eye-brow raised quizzically.
Lys drew herself to her full height. “I am Lysette Dupont, Etienne Dupont’s granddaughter. And there is no way that I am going to let you into either the windmill or the cottage so that you can certify them as uninhabitable!”
“You will have no choice, mademoiselle. Although I have no written authority today, it will be only a formality to obtain such documentation. It would be advisable to grant me access today before the matter is official. You never know, I may be able to make some suggestions for renovations before the official visit takes place. Let’s start with the windmill, shall we?”
Lys stood her ground. Something, she didn’t quite know what, made her distrust the man.
“May I see your identification card, monsieur?”
M. Boudot smirked openly.
“But of course, mademoiselle!”
He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out a slim, folded card, which he flicked open in front of Lys.
“As you see, mademoiselle, I am who I say I am!”
Lys glanced at the card and sniffed dismissively. “So?” She shrugged. “I still can’t help you. I have only arrived this afternoon and I don’t know where my grandfather keeps his keys. He is fast asleep and needs his rest. I have no intention of disturbing him.”
The man’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You will be well advised, mademoiselle, to encourage your grandfather to sell his property whilst he can … before a demolition order is placed on it. That would deter prospective buyers, believe me! Huh! The next storm will more than likely blow it down!”
Lys followed his glance towards the windmill, trying to look at it objectively. It was nearly two hundred years old and had already withstood many a winter storm. She was certain it wasn’t as bad as this man would have her believe. Hands on her hips, she faced him squarely.
“I’ll advise my grandfather to get a surveyor of his own!” she said curtly. “Now, if you will be so good as leave our land, I can get on with my work.”
Reluctant to accept defeat so easily, the man hesitated … but Lys refused to give way. She didn’t like him and didn’t trust him. The sooner she was rid of him, the better.
M. Boudot turned on his heel and strode back to his car. With a squeal of his tyres on the loose chippings, he roared away. Lys looked after him thoughtfully, realising that she wanted to look around the windmill herself without delay.
Grand-père’s voice greeted her return to the cottage.
“Lysette! Come here, girl!”
She rushed into his room in some alarm.
“I’m here, Grand-père! What is it?”
“I heard voices. Who is it? It’s not that Michel Fayau, is it? Don’t let him in here! I’ll have nothing to do with him. He’s a scoundrel! A rogue! I wouldn’t trust him to blow on my coffee without drinking half of it!”
“It’s all right! It wasn’t M. Fayau. It was a man called Leon Boudot, a local surveyor.” She briefly explained the purpose of his visit but laid a hand on her grandfather’s arm when she saw signs of his agitation. “Don’t worry, Grand-père! I wouldn’t let him in and he’s gone. Now, don’t worry about it. No-one can make you do anything you don’t want to. Even if you can’t work the windmill, you can still live here.”
She glanced round the dim interior, shuddering slightly at the thought of living for more than a few weeks in its austerity, especially if she were still here next winter. No electricity; no plumbed in water; a simple cesspit toile
t; and a well in the courtyard. Was it really a suitable place for an old man?
Memory of Leon Boudot’s smirking face gave her a determination she didn’t know she had. She would make sure the place was suitable for Grand-père! But first, she needed to determine its present state.
“May I look around the windmill, Grand-père, before the light goes?
“Yes. The key is on the hook by the door. Take care, Lys. There’s not much light in there and I’ve not been inside for a few weeks.”
“I’ll be careful! I won’t be long.”
She took the key and went outside to the windmill, going to the nearest door. The heavy key grated in the lock but a firm twist released the mechanism and she pushed the door open.
It was quite dark inside since the windows were tiny and needed a good clean. The floor was composed of stone flags on packed earth and, although dusty, needed no more than a good sweep out. She knew it hadn’t been used as a corn windmill for many years but all of the old equipment was still there in various stages of disrepair, covered in layers of dust. Large empty flour sacks lay piled on a bench near the long wooden chute that came down from the floor above. She stepped nearer and tentatively fingered a cobweb.
Grand-père had lost heart after Grand-mère had died. She’d heard it said but hadn’t really taken in what it meant. It was obvious to her now that he had just lost all interest in his work. What had he got to inspire him? His son and daughter-in-law had split up; his son sailed the seven seas with little or no contact; his ex-daughter-in-law didn’t want to visit him any more; and even his granddaughter had stopped visiting.
Tears pricked her eyes but she shook them away. It was no use crying over the past and she had already made her peace with Grand-père about that. What she needed to do now was to think of a way to inspire him to work again!
Oh, not in the windmill! He wouldn’t be strong enough to cope with that—but there was no reason why he couldn’t make his home a bit smarter. Maybe have electricity installed and water plumbed in? That would make his life a bit easier for him.
She looked dubiously at the flight of wooden steps that curved around the outer wall, leading up to the next floor, wondering if it were safe to climb up. She grasped the side of the handrail firmly and tried to shake it. It stood firm. Treading carefully, she ascended slowly.
This section housed the chute that directed the milled grains from the millstones into the series of sieves that separated the ground corn into three grades. The chutes had stood idle for a number years and the timber looked very dry. Remembering the rigorous movement of the drums that held the sieves, she doubted that they would be strong enough to perform the necessary action. The whole lot could burst apart if too much force were employed.
Pursing her lips thoughtfully, she looked at the next flight of steps. This flight was narrower and the handrail moved slightly when she shook it. The light was poorer, too. When the windmill was working, a hatch would be open, allowing the sacks of corn to be hauled inside from the hoist and pulley system—but that was fastened shut. She went as far as three steps from the top and looked around.
The two huge millstones were on this next level, covered by a specially-made wooden casing that kept the whirling residue of milled grains contained within. She could make out the shape of the hopper that the corn would have been emptied into on the first stage of its journey from corn to flour and, higher up, she could see faint shafts of daylight coming through the broken lattes of le chapeau, the local name for the conical cap-shaped roof. She had seen her grandfather’s muscular arms grasp the huge wooden rudder that was fixed to the outside of le chapeau. It was as tall and thick as a telegraph pole but he would slowly manoeuvre it around on its on greased rails until the sails faced into the wind. She remembered him telling her that the roof was made entirely of oak so that it was light enough to be manually re-positioned. Housed within le chapeau were the huge wooden shaft and cog wheel that were turned by the power of the wind on the sails.
Not one to leave a task half-done, Lys continued to the top of the steps and moved to where she could stroke the wooden casing, remembering the constant rumble and shuddering of the windmill being driven by the enormous sails. Now, it lay still beneath her hand.
She lifted the hinged flap at one side of the lid and laid her hand on the top stone, feeling its cold roughness. She then reached out to touch the metal shaft and craned back her neck to see where the lantern-shaped set of cogs at its summit met the forty-seven large wooden teeth set into the main cog wheel. Grand-père always called this level the ‘heart of the windmill’, likening the rhythmic sound of the action of cogs against cogs and the pounding of the sails-shaft to the human heartbeat.
Indeed, silent as it now was, the windmill was dead.
As a youngster, Lys had been fascinated to watch the action of the shafts and cogs and Grand-père had constructed a smaller working model one winter to show her the following summer. It was probably still here somewhere. She made a mental note to ask him. She was sure he would still have it somewhere.
She glanced around. As far as she could determine, the general structure of the windmill was sound but she would do as she had said to Leon Boudot. She would get a surveyor to come and give them an independent opinion … and keep Grand-père’s home intact.
Realising that she could do nothing else tonight, she descended carefully and locked the door behind her.
Grand-père was dozing comfortably and she made a quick inspection of the store cupboard. There were some tins of meat, fish, soup and vegetables; a pot of butter; half a pot of jam and some biscuits.
Madame Giraud had been providing meals for Grand-père but she couldn’t let her go on doing so now that she was here; the woman had enough to do to keep her patisserie well-stocked. She had a mental vision of her younger self gazing through the patisserie window and being allowed to choose her favourite pastry from its tantalising mouth-watering display.
She smiled at the memory, conscious that the thought of food was making her feel hungry. If she hurried, she would be in time to get some bread and pastries for their meal and so she strolled along the road towards the tiny village of Le Deu.
The patisserie was only about a hundred metres away, in a short row of small dwellings. Beyond that were the other simple white-washed stone cottages of the small village and then the road through the pine trees to Vertbois and the coast.
The grocer’s shop window display was no longer there, though window boxes and tubs filled with bright flowers showed that the cottage was still lived in. The same at the former butcher’s shop ... but there were some delicious-looking pastries in the mullioned Patisserie window. The door was ajar, so. Lys knocked and stepped inside.
Madame Giraud came through from the back.
“Ah! Come in. Come in, Lysette. Has Etienne sent you for your dinner? I am just about to serve it out.”
She turned and bustled back into the kitchen. Lys followed her, sniffing appreciatively at the aroma of cooking and freshly baked bread.
“Grand-père’s asleep. It’s very kind of you to have been making his meals, Madame Giraud. I’ll have a lot to live up to, now that I’m here to look after Grand-père instead of you.” She laughed depreciatively at herself. “I’m no cook to speak of, I’m afraid!”
Madame Giraud shrugged. “It is no hardship for me to continue, Lysette. Cooking for one, two or three, it is no different. It takes no longer! Etienne pays his way, you know!”
“Oh!”
She hadn’t known … though she should have, she realised. Grand-père had his pride!
“But your Patisserie? Your time?”
Madame Giraud gave a hollow laugh. “I bake a few loaves, a few baguettes, flutes and such; some croissants for breakfast and pastries for afternoon tea … but business is slack.” She sighed heavily. “It’s the supermarkets, you see. They can do it all so much more cheaply than I can. They have more variety for less money. What are people to do? I cannot blame them
for taking their custom there. They buy all they need in one shop. Maybe we should do as Michel Fayau wants and sell out to him?”
“Why does he want your properties? He must have something in mind. He wouldn’t risk making a loss.”
Madame Giraud shook her head.
“We don’t know He must know something! He has friends on the council. Someone must have leaked something to him. But no-one is saying.”
“Someone like Leon Boudot?” Lys suggested.
“Very probably. Why do you mention him?”
Lys explained about his visit and her decision to get an independent survey.
“It will cost money! And how will you get a surveyer whom you can trust?”
“I don’t know. I’ll have to think about it. Anyway, I mustn’t keep you. Thank you for the fish pie. It smells delicious.”
“And your baguette! Don’t forget the baguette!”
Laughing, Madame Giraud tucked it under Lys’s arm and saw her to the door. Lys returned to the windmill cottage deep in thought, trying to think of a solution to her grandfather’s problem. There was one option she could take!
The following day, before Lys had done any more than collect some croissants from the patisserie, drawn water from the well and made a pot of coffee, she heard a car drawing up outside. A glance through the window showed it to be Leon Boudot again. With a ‘tut’ of annoyance, she went to the door and strode out to meet him.
“Can’t you even let people have their breakfast in peace?” she demanded, not pausing to make the customary greeting.
“It is after nine o’clock,” m. Boudot said smoothly, looked pointedly at his wristwatch.
“Hmph! Only just!”
She relaxed her stance. He had warned her he would be coming back. She just hadn’t expected him this early. She was glad she’d had time to look at the windmill the previous evening. At least she knew it wasn’t in too bad a state.
“Anyway, you’ll have to wait until I’ve cleared away my grandfather’s tray. I can’t leave it on his knees. He might knock it off if he falls asleep.”