The sign on the door said "closed", the weather worn shutters were folded across the windows and the sound of the nearby town clock struck it's 1st chime of the new day. Jean la-Poule was counting the few coins that had spent most of the day sitting in a compartment of an old push button cash register that lived on a dusty counter. The sky was dark and the reflection of the one corner street lamp could be seen in the wet surface of the cobbled lane. Rain had been the only visitor to this town for a few days. A rhythmic squeak was heard coming down the lane as Monsieur Picard the local baker traveled to work on his trusted green bicycle. The wicker basket strapped across his handle bars squeaked in tune with the pedals that moved in a slow circular motion. He was a popular man, a friendly soul and always had a smile for his customers, and was known to give out an extra croissant or two for his favorite ladies, but deep beneath his friendly exterior he carried a dark secret that no one knew, not even his best friend Jean la-Poule.
As the irritating squeak slowly disappeared back into the darkness of the cobbled lane a sigh of despair was heard from inside the bistro, once a vibrant meeting place for all travelers passing through to experience the big city of romance a few kilometers away. The four legged tower once created by a local man Gustave Eiffel haunted the distant night skies like a vulture seeking an eagerly awaited meal.
Jean la-Poule reached down behind his counter, pulled out an old dusty shoebox, turned around and fixed his hand firmly on his most expensive bottle of brandy which he had been saving for more promising times. With the box of memories, the bottle and glass squashed between his fingers he made his way over to the best table in the bistro, a quiet secluded corner with a window view forbidden by wooden shutters. He untied his white apron, folded it and placed it on the table and sat himself down.
First out of the box was a revolver that was meant for an escape from any impossible situation if needed. Monsieur la-Poule carefully unwrapped the black cloth that housed the gun and gently ran his finger down the side of the barrel. The bullet stood upright on the table like a soldier on parade, bronze in colour and with a small dent on one side. The sound of the brandy splashing into the glass broke the silence but only for a moment as an expressionless face sat at the once romantic rendezvous point, a face that gave away no clues as to the thinking behind it. A large gulp and a deep sigh was taken, time stood still and even the tick tock of his grandfather clock seemed to last an hour between each swing of the pendulum. His weary hands reached into his shoebox and pulled out two more objects. The first was a crinkled discolored photograph of two lovers. A once slim, handsome gentleman with a beautiful auburn haired woman standing under an old oak tree. Clothed in a pale pink sweater and a white skirt that hung down over her feet, she held a simple but elegant collection of flowers in one hand and her lovers in the other. The corners of the picture were dog-eared and the edges had tiny tares which had been carefully preserved to eliminate any further damage. The second item was an envelope with the initials JLP written on the front.
A loud thumping echoed down the quiet streets,
"JEAN LA-POULE, JEAN LA-POULE ARE YOU IN THERE? THIS IS AN EMERGENCY" shouted the local Gendarme as he straightened his tie. "JEAN LA-POULE ANSWER THIS DOOR!"
After a clatter of chairs and unexplainable mumberlings the door opened slowly and in came the morning light eclipsed by the tall uniformed Monsieur Stone. Half awake he turned to see the time on his grandfather clock and the sight of an empty bottle laying on the table caught his eye. The clock chimed nine and he realised that he had failed in his attempt of escapism along with the success of a little French cafe.
"I HAVE SOME BAD NEWS MONSIEUR LA-POULE, THERE HAS BEEN A FIRE AT THE BAKERS AND MONSIEUR PICARD HAS PASSED AWAY. HE HAD IN HIS WALLET AN EVELOPE THAT IS ADDRESSED TO YOU" As Jean La-poule slumped back into the chair the feeling of despair fell upon his face once again. Within 24 hours time had stood still in the life of this once energetic man.
"My dear friend. In the event of my death will you please do me one last favour? Will you go to 127 Elliott Street, Bath, England and when you knock on the door and they ask who you are, just tell them you bring bread from Picards bakery. Merci and Bon Voyage"
Later that afternoon Jean La-Poule started his journey for England, he never liked the final goodbye's of funerals so this was a perfect excuse to avoid that and to leave the bistro behind, even for a few days.
The boat trip was cheap and affordable and dated 28th February but he soon found out that comfort was not included in the price. He had been to England a few times to wine tasting conventions in the hope of finding a masterpiece that would draw customers into his bistro, but he never found such a thing and his bottles collected dust from week to week just like his floor and chairs.
Hitchiking was his cheapest form of transport and although the journey had taken him 2 days he was grateful to reach the old Roman city. Stubble had appeared on his face and he was in need of a shower but he persevered to honour his friends final request.
After various questions of direction in broken English, he turned the last corner into Elliott street. An upmarket neighbourhood with stone lions that guarded every driveway. Buildings of splendour filled the street accompanied by a beautiful purple plant that seemed to creep up the walls and around the windows. The people walking their dogs saw him crossed the road refusing to acknowledge his curiosity of this foreign culture.
"121......123........125........there 127" he whispered "finally, now what was Picard hiding this time?"
A young woman answered the door dressed in a black and white simple uniform with a black leather belt around her waist. Her hair was tied up into what looked like a bun on top of her head, clearly a woman who took pride in her appearance.
"Bonjour Madame. Je suis Jean la Poule et j'ai apporté de la boulangerie Picard" he said in a quiet nervous voice.
"I am sorry Sir, i cannot speak French" were the words he heard from this little lady. "
"Pardon moi Madame, I am Jean le-Poule and i have brought bread from Picard's bakery."
A silence filled the air that accompanied a look of shock and surprise that came upon the maids face and her eyes began to fill with tears, The moment was timeless, the questions were limitless but no words were spoken as these two strangers stood on the concrete steps of 127 Elliot street.
"WELL SHOW HIM IN JOESPHINE, DONT LET HIM STAND OUT IN THE COLD!" came the words booming from behind the door that was a few feet away. As Jean la-Poule tried to pear through the crack between the door and its frame he saw a small segment of a large black piano. Josephine hustled him in , took his coat and offered him a cup of tea as he made his way into the grand sitting room that was the home of this majestic music maker. The fireplace was the first thing that captured his attention, three foot pillars either side made of solid white marble with a few pictures resting on the shelf that was the roof of this enormous fireplace. The white lace draped across the arms of the chairs camouflaged the soft pink of the material that lay beneath it. A circular silver tray was brought in by the front door greeter and placed on to the table in a way that was delicate and silent.
Trying to take in the splendour of the room into his conciousness he heard a soft voice coming from behind him "Please sit down Jean la-Poule, welcome to my home. I know who you are"
Over tea and cakes the two strangers exchanged a few smiles, but it was not a smile that Jean la-Poule had come for. He wanted an explanation as to why he was asked to come to England. The elderly lady peered over her glasses, adjusted the shawl that covered her shoulders and suggested that her new visitor take a closer look at a photo album that lived on a small wooden table next to her chair . A final glance and a half smile was offered as she handed the book of memories to the curious traveller.
The pages were turned yet no answers were found, until the book had come to its last page. Jean le-Poule sat in amazement, his hands were shaking and a tear rolled down his wrinkled cheek. Completely speechless, he turned his head towards the black piano and remembered a tune he once sang in his heart. His eyes were shared between glances of the piano and the woman as he tried to find an answer for what he was experiencing. Another look at the photograph was needed, but this time his eyes did not leave the picture..... a picture of a young handsome man with a beautiful auburn haired woman dressed in a pink sweater with a white flowing skirt and in one hand was a collection of lovingly picked flowers and in the other was the hand of her lover.
The years had past by so quickly but time had been good to her, she still had that special something hidden beneath her exterior. That special something that once again made Jean la-Poule's heart miss a beat. He was so overwhelmed that he had been given a moment to be in the presence of his one true love again that he had no words that could possibly enhance this moment in his life. The pain had been lifted, the peace had been found and the love for this woman had been re-ignited in an instant. Years of suppressed emotions were filling his entire being. His heart, his soul and his mind were being filled with a waterfall of speechlessness. Their eyes met across the tastefully decorated room as the connection between the two hearts was made again. This was a connection that was bigger than time, bigger than the house that they sat in and bigger than life itself.
Jean la-Poule's dream woman broke the silence with words of storytelling and the adventures the two of them had shared and the ones they had done separately. When they laughed they grew younger and both traveled back and forth in time in their memories as they tried to make a dent in the ocean of experience's that they wanted to share since that time in the forest of Oak trees all those years ago.
"But how?" Jean la-Poule asked, ""How did you find me?"
The sound of sniffles were heard through the door as Josephine sat cross legged leaning against the wall listening....listening to the story that for so many years she had been told about a certain Jean la-Poule but never in a way that it was being expressed at this time. The story in her ears was being told surrounded by an atmosphere of pure love. She sat motionless as even the slightest movement could disturb her from hearing a vital heartbeat of the journey of these people who had without knowing it..... given her so much hope in finding her own one true love.
Monsieur Picard's deep secret was finally revealed as the lady of the house explained that after he saw the broken heart of his best friend, he made it his mission to find her. Once he had found her he regularly kept her updated with the life of Jean la-Poule and promised that if anything would ever happen to him that he would find a way of filling his best friends heart with peace again. That he had to conjure up a code so that nobody would ever find out his secret and the one he thought was best to use was that the broken hearted Jean la-Poule would bring bread from his bakery.
Their cheeks were wet with tears as a moment of silence fell into the room. She handed him a note that was given to her on the bakers last visit to Elliot street and on it were written a few simple words:
" Jean la-Poule, i want to congratulate you on being a great man, and thankyou for being my friend. "
Pierre Picard
News had spread fast about the French visitor and the hallway of 127 Elliot street was full of sobbing workers listening to the journey of their hearts. All honoured and adored their employer and had all imagined this one man who loved her so much.
The emotions of the day were too much for our French romantic and it was agreed between them that he would stay in one of the many vacant spare rooms. The sound of a tiny bell echoed down the hallway and startled all of the eager listeners. Josephine jumped to her feet, quickly wiped away her tears and straightened her uniform and took a deep breath.
"Yes Miss Anabella, how can i help you?" asked the emotional young lady.
"Monsieur la-Poule will be staying for a few days, please can you prepare bedroom six for him. He will need something to wear while we do his laundry so can you take his measurements and arrange for Mr.Roberts the tailor to make something for him and let him have the bed linen with the forest flowers on it and oh......can you please get him some of my favourite chocolates too? Thankyou Josephine, what would i do without you?"
As the sun rose it met the busy workers preparing for the day. A knock on the front door at 8.30am announced the entrance of 3 new suits for Jean la-Poule. On receiving the measurements Mr Roberts had worked through the night,
"Anything for you Ma'Lady" he would say, but even though Miss Anabella knew that she was the apple of his eye she still kept things very professional between them. She paid him instantly for his hard work and thanked him with a gentle handshake.
"Please see Josephine before you go Mr.Roberts, chef has been baking a cake for your dear sister, i hope she feels better soon."
Over the next few days stories were told, questions were answered and friendships had begun between all who worked and lived at 127 Elliot Street. Jean la-Poule was a different man, a happier man, a more relaxed man. Smithers the gardener often caught him walking around the huge garden whistling and smelling the flowers. Although despite this new inner peace he had found he still had one question that he needed an answer for, a question that had haunted him for forty years, a question that he had always dreamed of asking but never had the courage to ask it.
But the time had come for our lovestruck Frenchman to return to his homeland. His return journey was different from his first, courtesy of Miss Annabella who had purchased a ticket on a new boat making her first voyage across the waters, much to Jean la-Poules surprise and gratitude.
The smell of the cobbled streets and the heavy fog that lay over the tiny French town were a far cry from the elegant streets of the roman city that wrapped itself around his one true love. His heart was aching and his tears kept flowing, he had learned to live in the darkness of life all these years and all of a sudden light had come into it in an overpowering abundance, just like his first opening of his bistro door that sunny morning. Immediatly he realised one thing and even the thought of it brought tears to his eyes. He sat once again in the most romantic table of the bistro and in front of him were three choices, a gun, an empty bottle and an envelope. He pushed two of them aside and reached out to grab the third. His hands were trembling, his bottom lip was quivering and his eyes were filled with tears. He took a deep breath and embraced his final choice. Upon opening the envelope the smell of wild flowers filled his senses and a folded piece of lightly shaded pink paper was its hidden treasure. Scared to read it and scared not too, Jean la-Poule was in a place in his life where he had never been before.
" I love you now, I always will. I'm sorry i have to go. - Annabella"
A sudden explosion of wanting filled every inch of his body. The cries that came from behind the bistro doors that day came from the very depths of a man's heart. A place where only one person can go, a place created especially just for a man's one true love.
Jean la-Poule held in one hand his bag and in the other a note from his lover.
Two days later he knocked on the door of 127 Elliot street. A young woman answered dressed in a black and white simple uniform with a black leather belt around her waist. Once again silence filled the air on these concrete steps,
"WELL SHOW HIM IN JOESPHINE, DONT LET HIM STAND OUT IN THE COLD!" came the familiar words from behind the door. His coat was removed and he walked into the room where his true love was sitting.
"Annabella, I can't lose you again" he said as his eyes filled with tears.
"So don't" she replied.
© Travelling Boy content belongs to Philip D Norris
