Page 55 of Vianne

The last half of October brings sullen skies and storms from the south.

Lightning stalks the harbour at night, and the rain brings a flotilla of plastic bottles and beer cans down Allée du Pieu straight to our door.

My skylight is leaking; a steady drip comes through the frame and falls into a flowered chamber-pot supplied by Stéphane from wherever he goes in search of abandoned objects.

Next door, the Chinese takeaway has been shut down by inspectors.

Apparently someone has complained that they were pouring cooking oil into the drain at the end of the street.

This is a lie, says Madame Li angrily, in her broken French.

They have always put the oil into drums, to be taken away by the refuse collectors.

But the inspectors came to check, and although they confirmed that this was true, they also discovered some other problems that must be addressed immediately.

As a result, Happy Noodles is shut, with a warning sign on the door; and the familiar smell of spiced roast pork and frying garlic and cooking oil is absent.

‘Good,’ says Mahmed. ‘Let’s hope it stays that way.’

This is a habitual refrain: relations between Mahmed and the Chinese family are not cordial. But the Chinese family are dismayed. Madame Li tells me that they must refurbish the premises completely before they are allowed to reopen. ‘That could take three months,’ she says. ‘Very, very difficult.’

I can see from her manner that she blames Mahmed.

I have seen her watching him coming and going behind the shop.

I sense that to her, he looks frightening; his height; his long and greying hair; his scowl of fierce concentration.

I have seen her calling her girls inside when he is working: beside him, they look tiny; almost painfully fragile.

‘If there’s anything we can do to help, please ask,’ I say.

She smiles and nods politely. I know she will not ask.

I wish I could tell her that Mahmed is not responsible for their troubles; that he would never do such a thing; that beneath his look of ferocity, there beats a kind and gentle heart.

But the Chinese family remain aloof; nothing I can say breaks through their veil of polite suspicion.

Meanwhile, our own refurbishments are coming on apace.

Stéphane has found me a chest of drawers, which he has painted primrose-yellow; and he has repainted the walls of my room in the same sunny colour.

The result is bright and cheerful: and he has promised to fix the leaking skylight as soon as he can.

A little picture in a frame – an icon of the Virgin and child – hangs above my makeshift bed, and I now have a pair of blankets, slightly moth-eaten, one sky-blue, one lemon-yellow, as well as a couple of cushions.

I also have some second-hand clothes to suit the colder weather; a couple of sweaters; a corduroy skirt; a pair of comfortable boots.

This urge to collect is dangerous. But I have always done it.

Menus, stolen from restaurants where we could never afford to eat.

Seeds, planted in our wake, in the hope that one day I might see them grow.

Mahmed has made me a window-box in which I will plant daffodil bulbs: by Christmas I will see their shoots.

Until then, I have planted a little windmill in the soil, a child’s toy left by the roadside, which flashes bright colours as it turns.

Today the windmill is turning so fast that I can barely see the colours – a sign, my mother would have said. The wind is always changing.

Let it change. I am safe here. And I am learning so much about chocolate and its origins; its history, its legends; its many different grades of beans.

Guy makes me spiced hot chocolate every day instead of my usual coffee.

It’s better for the baby, he says. Perhaps it is; coffee does not seem to agree with me as it once did, and the chocolate is sweetened and made with milk to make it more palatable.

Guy and Mahmed both take theirs black; but Stéphane likes the frothy chocolat au lait , which reminds him of his mother, and his childhood home.

Breakfast together has become another of our rituals; with croissants or tartines with apricot jam.

We take it in the back of the shop, where there is a little kitchen.

And we talk, and go over our plans for the week, and the opening in December.

I like it; having a routine. Having a kind of family.

Were it not for one thing, I would be completely content.

And still the quiet days roll by like waves upon a sandy shore, and we build our castles in the sand, and dream of Christmas chocolates.