Gradually, another noise makes itself known. A rhythmic metallic creaking. I look up to see an old man walking towards me on a track through the grapevines. He’s a bandy-legged, wiry old thing, and the creaking is caused by the galvanized buckets he carries swinging slightly on their handles. His sparse hair is almost white, his face baked the colour of old oak. He barely seems taller than me even though I’m sitting down. But there’s a sinewy strength about him, and the forearms below his rolled shirtsleeves are thick with knotted muscle.
This must be the Georges Gretchen mentioned, I guess. I give him a nod. ‘Morning.’
There’s no acknowledgement. He continues unhurriedly towards the barn, walking right past me as though I’m not there. Unsettled, I turn my head to see what he’s doing as he goes inside. There’s the clatter of the buckets being set down, and a moment later I hear the tinny drumming of water as they’re filled at the tap. After a few minutes the sound of water cuts off and he re-emerges. He doesn’t so much as glance at me as he heads back down the track, forearms bulging as though they’re stuffed with walnuts under the weight of the buckets.
‘Nice to meet you, too,’ I say to his back.
I watch him trudge across the vine field and into the wood at the far side. He’s soon out of sight, and I wonder what he needs the buckets of water for down there. The farm doesn’t seem to have any livestock except for chickens and the goats I’ve heard bleating, and no visible crops except for the grapes. Judging from the sour-smelling corks and the spaces where wine-making equipment used to be in the barn, it hardly seems to be making a success as a vineyard, either.
I wonder how they survive.
I’ve rested enough, and my exposed skin is starting to sting and redden. Struggling to my feet, I settle the crutch under my arm and shuffle around the corner of the barn. There’s a roofless outhouse with an old hole-in-the-ground privy, and beyond that is the courtyard I remember from before. It’s even hotter here. Heat shimmers off the cobbles, and the scaffolded house where I asked for water looks bleached in the sun. A weathervane shaped like a cockerel leans precariously on its sway-backed roof, waiting for the air to move.
A few hens peck lazily at the dirt but there’s no one about. Thinking about water has made me thirsty again. There’s the tap in the barn, but after the old man’s indifference I feel a need to see another human face, if only briefly. I limp towards the house, the crutch slipping on the smooth cobbles. Off to one side, the broken clock on the stable block is still caught in its frozen sweep, single hand poised at twenty to nothing. The farm vehicles parked below it don’t seem to have moved since the last time I was here. A dusty van and trailer sit outside the stable block as though they’ve died there, while the radiator of a decrepit tractor pokes from one of the arched stalls like the muzzle of a sleeping dog. Another stall is occupied by an old blacksmith’s forge. Strips of iron are propped against it, but it isn’t until I see the crude triangular teeth on one that I realize what I’m looking at.
Feeling a memory-ache in my foot, I carry on to the house.
It’s even more run-down than I remember. The scaffold covers half of it, and unpainted shutters hang from the windows like the wings of dead moths. The ground at the foot of the wall is speckled with pieces of mortar that have fallen out, hardly any more cohesive than sand. A half-hearted attempt has been made to repair the crumbling stonework but it’s obviously been abandoned. And not recently: the scaffolding is rusted in places, and so is a chisel that lies on the ground under it. When I nudge it with my crutch it leaves a perfect imprint of itself on the cobbles.
The kitchen door stands open. Wiping the sweat from my eyes, I knock on it. ‘Hello?’
There’s no answer. As I turn away I notice another door further down, unpainted and warped. Labouring over on my crutch, I knock again, then tentatively push it open. It creaks back on unoiled hinges. Inside is dark, and even from the doorway I can feel the damp chill that spills out.
‘What are you doing?’
I spin round, performing an intricate dance with my crutch and good foot to keep my balance. Mathilde’s father has materialized from behind the stable block. There’s a canvas bag slung over his shoulder, from which the bloodied leg of a rabbit protrudes. More worrying is the rifle he carries, which is pointing right at me.
‘Are you deaf? I said what are you doing?’
In the daylight he’s older than I’d thought, nearer sixty than fifty, with brown melanomas of sun and age freckling his forehead. He isn’t particularly tall, short in the legs and long in the body, but he’s still a bull of a man.
I take a second to steady myself on the crutch, trying not to look at the rifle. ‘Nothing.’
He glances at the open door behind me. ‘Why are you prowling around?’
‘I wanted a drink of water.’
‘There’s a tap in the barn.’
‘I know, but I needed some fresh air.’
‘I thought you said you wanted water?’ Against the weathered skin his pale-grey eyes look like chips of dirty ice. They go to the crutch and harden even more. ‘Where’d you get that from?’
‘I found it in the loft.’
‘And who said you could use it?’
‘No one.’
I’m not sure why I’m protecting Mathilde but it doesn’t seem right to lay the blame on her. I’m acutely aware of the rifle as her father’s chin juts aggressively.
‘So you thought you’d just help yourself? What else were you planning on stealing?’
‘I wasn’t …’ All at once I’m too exhausted to argue. The sun seems to be pressing down on me, sapping what little strength I have left. ‘Look, I didn’t think anyone would mind. I’ll put it back.’
I start to go past him back to the barn, but he’s blocking my way. He makes no attempt to move, keeping the rifle pointed at me. Until now I’d thought he was just posturing, but looking into the hard eyes I feel a sudden doubt. I’m past caring though. I stare back at him, and as the moment drags on a rhythmic creaking gradually impinges on the silence. Looking across the courtyard, I see Georges unhurriedly walking towards us, a rusted bucket swinging from one hand.
If he’s surprised to find his employer holding someone at gunpoint he doesn’t show it. ‘I’ve repaired the fence as best I can, M’sieur Arnaud. It’ll do for now but it still needs replacing.’
I might as well be invisible for all the notice he takes of me. Arnaud — I’d forgotten the name on the mailbox at the gate until now — has flushed deeper than ever.
‘All right.’
It’s a dismissal, but the old man doesn’t take the hint. ‘Will you be coming down to have a look?’
Arnaud huffs in irritation. ‘Yes, in a while.’
Georges gives a satisfied nod and goes back across the courtyard, still without reacting to my presence. I’m forced to lean on the crutch again as Arnaud regards me, jaw working as though he’s chewing his words.
But before he can spit them out a dog bursts from behind the stables. It’s a young springer spaniel, all lolling tongue and flapping ears. When it sees us it comes bounding past Arnaud and prances around me. I try not to show how much I’m shaking as I reach down to tousle its head.
‘Here!’ Arnaud’s voice cracks out. The dog dithers, torn between obedience and enjoying the attention. ‘Get here, damn you!’
Obedience wins. The spaniel slinks over, cowering and wagging its tail frantically. It would tie a white flag to it if it could, but as Arnaud raises his hand to cuff it a spasm contorts his features. He stiffens, one hand going to his back as he straightens in pain.
‘Mathilde! Mathilde!’ he bellows.
She hurries around the side of the house, the baby in one arm and a basket of soil-covered vegetables in the other. A flash of what could be dismay passes across her face when she sees us, then it’s wiped clean of any emotion.