Page 5 of A French Affair
Outside ‘Yann’s Place’, opposite the church, four cars were parked in a row and Belinda made her way over the square towards it. Hopefully it would be a bar-cum-restaurant and she’d be able to at least buy a sandwich and coffee.
A short silence greeted her entrance as she pushed the door open and walked in, as people glanced up and gave her a brief stare before dropping their gaze.
The man behind the counter called out a welcoming ‘Bonjour’ as Belinda made her way towards an empty table in the corner.
‘Bonjour,’ Belinda replied politely as she settled BB at her feet under the table. ‘Une café au lait, s’il vous plaît.’
Waiting for her coffee, Belinda studied the blackboards fixed to the wall advertising cassoulet as the ‘plat du jour’ and other meals and snacks, including savoury crêpes. A crêpe and a glass of rosé for lunch would be perfect. She wasn’t that hungry.
‘You like to eat?’ the man asked, placing her coffee on the table.
Belinda hid a smile. Her accent had clearly given her away as English. Good. The locals probably wouldn’t be eager to engage her in conversation now. She certainly didn’t intend to get involved in the local community or make friends with anyone while she was here.
‘Please,’ and pointing to the end blackboard, Belinda ordered a ham and egg crêpe and a glass of rosé.
‘Bien. Five minutes.’
The man returned to behind the bar and called her order through to someone in the kitchen.
Sitting there sipping her coffee, Belinda looked around. It wasn’t a big bar, but it had a welcoming vibe to it, which the wood burner burning away in the chimney recess at the end of the room enforced. She could imagine the place filled with locals on a winter’s weekend evening happily warming themselves by the fire and enjoying a glass or two of Brittany cider. Perhaps the bagpipes currently lying on a table near the fire would be picked up and traditional Breton songs would be sung.
A gust of cold air blew in as the door opened and a chorus of ‘Bonjours’ went back and forth as a group of young men entered and made for the stools around the bar. Watching as the barman served them bottles of beer as he took their food orders, Belinda smiled to herself as she heard the words ‘beaucoup des frites’ several times. Briefly she wondered whether the campsite café had been a ‘chips with everything’ sort of place.
The crêpe, when the barman placed it and her glass of wine on the table, looked delicious and he wished her ‘Bon appétit’ before turning away to collect glasses from a nearby table.
As she ate her lunch, Belinda heard some of the muted conversations around her. The words ‘anglaise’ and ‘étrangère’ caught her attention and she guessed they were talking and wondering about the unknown Englishwoman. Inwardly she shrugged. They’d find out soon enough – village grapevines were the same the world over.
When the barman came to take her empty plate away and asked if there was anything else she’d like, she shook her head. ‘Non merci,’ but knowing the man had at least some English, she asked, ‘Could you give me directions to the Auberge de Campagne, s’il vous plaît?’
‘Rue du Moulin. Left by the cemetery.’
‘Merci.’
Belinda paid the bill, gathered her things together and, holding BB’s lead tightly, left the bar. Rue du Moulin, a single-track road, was easy to find and Belinda found the ‘Auberge de Campagne’ about two hundred metres along on the right-hand side. Larger than the surrounding houses, it was set back from the road with a short drive lined with some well-pruned bushes leading to the shallow flight of steps up to its front door. A large ship’s captain-type brass bell was fixed to the wall near the door. Smiling at the ‘We speak English here’ sign, Belinda climbed the steps and pulled the cord.
The woman who opened the door several seconds later was about her own age and gave Belinda a friendly smile.
‘Bonjour. I’m Belinda Marshall and I have a room booked with you for a couple of nights.’
‘Hello and welcome. I’m Fern LeRoy. Come on in and I’ll show you all six and you can take your pick. Not many tourists around at this time of year,’ and she held out her hand.
‘You’re English?’ Belinda said, shaking the offered hand.
‘Yes,’ and Fern bent down to stroke BB. ‘Aren’t you the beautiful one? I hope you like Lady, my girl.’ She glanced up at Belinda. ‘I’ve got a West Highland White terrier. Come on, let’s introduce them. She’s in the boot room.’
‘BB usually loves other dogs, particularly bitches,’ Belinda said. ‘Shouldn’t be a problem.’
It wasn’t. Within minutes, the two dogs were playing happily together and Fern took Belinda upstairs to choose a bedroom. She chose the second room she saw – a large room at the back of the house overlooking a beautiful garden and the countryside.
‘You have a lovely auberge here. Bigger than I was expecting.’
‘It’s an old maison de maître,’ Fern explained. ‘Built in the nineteenth century for a prosperous businessman, when there were such people in rural Finistère.’
Belinda detected a strained note in the short laugh that followed the explanation before Fern spoke again.
‘Would you like a cup of tea? Or are you dashing off somewhere?’
Belinda knew she should return to the campsite to start assessing things, but the more time she could spend away from the place and the inevitable confrontation with Alain Salvin, the better right now.
