I wince and put my finger to my lips.
‘SOR— sorry.’
She listens with a childlike expression of delight, nodding her head to the beat. Her face is flawless except for the slight bump on her nose, but without it her prettiness would be bland. I let the music run on to the next track as well. When it stops she can’t hide her disappointment. Self-conscious again, she takes off the earphones.
‘Thank you.’
‘You can copy the album if you like.’
She looks at her lap. ‘I can’t. We don’t have a computer. We don’t even have a CD player any more, not since it broke.’
It’s like they live in a different era. It doesn’t seem much of a life for her. Or her sister, come to that. Even so, part of me isn’t sorry the farm is so cut off. ‘So what do you do for entertainment?’
She hitches a shoulder. ‘There’s TV. Or I take Michel out for walks.’
‘How old are you?’
‘Eighteen.’
It’s older than I expect. Not because she doesn’t look it, but there’s an immaturity about her that suggests a younger girl. ‘What about friends?’
‘There are some local boys …’ A smile curves her mouth as she winds the wire from the earphones around a finger. It turns into a moue of disappointment. ‘But Papa doesn’t like me seeing anyone from town. He says they’re all idiots and I shouldn’t waste my time.’
Somehow that doesn’t surprise me. ‘Don’t you get bored?’
‘Sometimes. This is Papa’s farm, though. If you live here you have to obey his rules. Most of the time, anyway.’
It’s said with a sly glance towards me. I know I’m supposed to ask what she means but I don’t. ‘Is that why he was angry last night? Because you’d broken his rules?’
The pretty features sour. ‘That was Mathilde’s fault. She should have told him about you. She’d no right to keep it a secret.’
‘So you decided to tell him?’
‘Why shouldn’t I?’ She raises her chin defiantly, for a moment looking disconcertingly like her father. ‘Mathilde’s always bossing me around, telling me what I can and can’t do. But once you were awake it was only fair to Papa. It’s his farm, not hers.’
I’m not going to argue. I’ve enough problems of my own without getting embroiled in a family dispute. And I’m suddenly aware that Gretchen seems to be sitting nearer to me than she was before. Close enough to feel the heat radiating off her bare arms.
‘You’d better get back before you’re missed.’ I take the earphones from her and set them aside, in the process putting a little more space between us. She looks surprised but gets to her feet.
‘Can I listen again sometime?’
‘What about your father?’
She shrugs. ‘He won’t know.’
So much for obeying Papa’s rules. But I get the feeling that Gretchen only obeys the ones she wants to. There’s a self-conscious swing to her hips as she gets up and crosses to the trapdoor. I look away, pretending to be busy with the earphones. When her footsteps have receded down the steps I sigh and put them down again. I feel sorry for Gretchen, but the last thing I need is a bored eighteen-year-old stirring things up. Especially one with a psychotic father. I just want to get away from here, the sooner the better.
And then what?
The loft seems hotter and more airless than usual. I light a cigarette and lean back against the stone wall, blowing smoke at the ceiling. As I watch the blue haze disperse, I think about what Mathilde and Gretchen have said. In all the talk about the farm there’s one person no one’s mentioned.
The father of Mathilde’s baby.
4
I go outside for the first time next morning.
After Gretchen’s visit, I slept for most of the previous day, rousing at one point to find a tray of food beside the bed. I managed to keep awake long enough to eat the clear chicken broth and bread, and then fell asleep again, still intending to get up and practise some more on the crutch.
But when I wake in the morning the food and rest have done their work. I feel much better. The loft is brightly sunlit but not yet hot, and there’s a blessed freshness I know won’t last until midday. Yesterday’s supper tray has been replaced with one containing breakfast — eggs and butter again. I didn’t hear anybody, but I’m growing used to the idea of someone coming here while I’m asleep.
I eat ravenously, wiping the last of the yolk up with bread and wishing there was more. The bucket of water Gretchen brought is still by the mattress, so I wash the dried sweat off myself as best I can and then take out my razor to shave. By my reckoning there’s almost a week’s worth of stubble to hack off, but at the last second I change my mind. There’s no mirror in the loft, not even a broken one, but the bristles feel strange under my fingers. Not quite a beard but not like my own face either. It doesn’t feel like me any more.
I decide that’s no bad thing.
For a few minutes I feel deliciously clean, then I start to sweat again. The loft’s small window is open, but all that achieves is to stir the air slightly without cooling it. The heat is already building up, and with it my restlessness. I get up, intending to practise with the crutch, and then see the trapdoor standing open. I hobble over to it and look down into the barn.
Nobody said I had to stay up here.
Negotiating the steps is much easier this time. Tucking the crutch under one arm, I go down backwards, using them like a ladder. My foot gives a warning throb every now and then, but by leaning my knee on each step I can keep my weight off it.
I stop to rest on the small landing I fell onto when Mathilde’s father pushed me down the steps. The empty bottles I knocked over have been stood upright again, but even in daylight the barn is dank and gloomy. The stone walls are windowless, with the only light coming from the large open entrance. The air is cooler, and as I descend the last few steps I notice a scent of stale wine mixed in with the musty odour of stone and wood. At some time in the past the barn has been a small winery. There’s an empty metal vat and the cobbles are scarred from where other equipment has been removed. One section of them has been torn up and replaced with concrete, new-looking but already starting to crack.
There’s a tap jutting from one wall. Water spatters out onto the cobbles when I turn it and cup my hand underneath to take a few mouthfuls. It’s teeth-achingly cold but tastes wonderfully fresh. Splashing a little onto my face, I go to the tall wine rack that stands nearby. It’s half full of unlabelled bottles, but a good number of their corks are stained where the wine has seeped through. I sniff at one of them, wrinkling my nose at the sour taint, before going to the barn’s entrance.
Sunlight pours in from outside. I stand for a moment, taking in the scene through the open doors. The world outside is framed between them, a vivid picture set against the dark walls. Like a cinema screen.
Squinting against the brightness, I lean on my crutch and walk into it.
It’s like stepping into Technicolor. I breathe deeply, enjoying the scents of wild flowers and herbs. My legs are shaky, but after the smothering loft it’s good to feel sun on my face. Careful of my bandaged foot, I lower myself to the dusty ground to take in the view.
Directly in front of the barn is the vine field I saw from the loft’s window. It’s bordered by woods, and further off I can just make out the blue of the lake through the trees. Beyond that is the pale gold of surrounding fields, stretching as far as I can see. Whatever else the farm might be, it’s certainly peaceful. The air simmers with the drone of crickets and the occasional bleating of unseen goats, but nothing else disturbs the quiet. No cars, no machinery, no people.
I close my eyes and soak it up.