‘Who’s Mathilde called after?’
Gretchen’s expression turns hard. ‘How should I know?’
She plucks a flower so forcefully its roots come up with the stem. Discarding it, she picks another. I try to lighten the atmosphere. ‘So, how old’s Michel?’
‘He’ll be one in autumn.’
‘I haven’t seen his father. Is he from around here?’
I’m only trying to make conversation but Gretchen’s face hardens even more. ‘We don’t talk about him.’
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.’
After a moment she gives a shrug. ‘It’s no secret. He left before Michel was born. He let us all down. We welcomed him into our family, and he betrayed us.’
That sounds like her father talking, but I keep any more comments to myself. Threading one last flower onto the link, Gretchen connects the two ends and loops the chain around Michel’s neck. He grins, then snaps it in his small fist.
A blankness comes over Gretchen’s features, as if someone’s taken hold of the skin and pulled it back. She slaps his arm, harder than she hit mine.
‘Bad boy!’ Her nephew starts to howl. I’m not surprised: her hand has left a red imprint on his chubby little arm. ‘Bad, bad boy!’
‘It was only an accident,’ I say, worried she’s going to slap him again.
For a second I think she might hit me instead. Then, as suddenly as it came, the mood passes. ‘He’s always doing things like that,’ she says, throwing the broken flower chain aside. She picks up her nephew and cuddles him. ‘Come on, Michel, don’t cry. Gretchen didn’t mean it.’
I’d say she did, but the baby is more easily persuaded. His howls subside to hiccups and soon he’s chuckling again. After Gretchen’s wiped his eyes and nose the entire incident is forgotten. ‘I’d better take him back,’ she says, climbing to her feet. ‘Are you coming?’
I hesitate. I’d rather stay by the lake, and then there’s her father to consider. ‘No, I’d better not.’
‘Why, are you scared of Papa?’ She grins.
I don’t know how to answer that. The man’s already threatened me with a rifle and kicked me downstairs, and I’m in no rush to provoke him any further. But the accusation still rankles.
‘I think it’s better if I keep out of his way, that’s all.’
‘Don’t worry. He has a bad back so he goes to bed after lunch. And Georges goes home for his, so there’s no one to tell.’
She’s waiting for me to go with them. It doesn’t seem as though I’ve got much choice, so with a last look at the lake I manoeuvre myself inelegantly to my feet. Gretchen slows to allow me to keep up as we walk back through the woods, hip thrust out to support the baby’s weight, legs long and tanned below the paleblue dress. Her flip-flops scuff on the dirt track, beating out a counterpoint to the scrape of my crutch. A late-afternoon hush has settled. It seems even more pronounced when we reach the statues, the stone figures lending it the quiet of a church nave.
‘What are these doing here?’ I ask, pausing to catch my breath.
Gretchen barely glances at them. ‘Papa’s going to sell them. He started collecting them years ago. You’d be surprised what old châteaux have in their gardens.’
‘You mean he stole them?’
‘Of course not! Papa isn’t a thief!’ she retorts. ‘They’re only old statues, and the places they’re from were all empty. How could it be stealing if no one lived there?’
I doubt the owners would see it that way, but I’ve upset Gretchen enough for one afternoon. And the walk has taken more out of me than I thought. The dog runs on ahead as we emerge from the woods and start across the dry vine field. The sun is still hot but lower now, so our shadows stretch ahead of us like spindly giants. I labour along with my head down, too tired to talk. By the time we’ve reached the barn I’m slick with sweat and my leg muscles are twitching with fatigue.
Gretchen pushes her hair back behind her ear as we stop by the doorway, an unconscious echo of her sister. ‘You’re all sweaty,’ she says, dimpling a smile. ‘You should practise on your crutch more. I take Michel for a walk most afternoons. If you like I could meet you at the lake again tomorrow.’
‘I won’t be here,’ I tell her. ‘I’m leaving in the morning.’
Saying the words makes it more real. Just the thought of it feels like stepping off a cliff.
Gretchen stares. ‘You can’t leave! What about your foot?’
‘I’ll manage.’
Her face hardens. ‘This is Mathilde’s fault, isn’t it?’
‘Mathilde? No, of course not.’
‘She’s always spoiling things. I hate her!’
The sudden venom takes me aback. ‘It’s nothing to do with Mathilde. I need to go, that’s all.’
‘Fine. Go then.’
She walks away, leaving me standing there. I sigh, staring into the dark interior of the barn. I wait till I’ve caught my breath, then begin the long haul back up the wooden steps to the loft.
I sleep for a few hours and wake to find that the sun has gone from the loft. It’s still hot and close but there’s a dusky quality to the light that suggests it’s getting late. When I look at my watch I see it’s after eight. No sign of dinner yet. I wonder whether it’s delayed or if I’ve upset Arnaud or Gretchen enough not to get anything.
I’m not sure I could eat anyway.
I go downstairs and wash under the barn’s tap. The icy water takes my breath away but makes me feel a little better. Then I sit down outside to watch the sun’s slow descent. As it slides behind the chestnut wood I light up a cigarette. It’s my last, but finding a supermarket or a tabac can be my first objective tomorrow. After that …
I’ve no idea.
The glowing tip of my cigarette is almost down to my fingers when I hear footsteps coming from the courtyard. It’s Mathilde, carrying a tray on which I’m surprised to see is a bottle of wine as well as a plate of steaming food.
I start to climb awkwardly to my feet. ‘Don’t get up,’ she says, setting the tray down beside me. ‘I’m sorry dinner’s late. Michel has gripe and wouldn’t settle.’
Even though I’d told myself it didn’t matter, I’m glad there’s a mundane reason. Though I daresay Michel is less pleased.
‘Smells great,’ I tell her. And it does: pork and chestnuts, with sautéed potatoes and a green salad. It’s a pity I’m not hungry.
‘I thought you might like some wine tonight. It’s only our own, but it’s not too bad with food.’
‘What’s the occasion?’ I wonder if it’s meant to mark my departure.
‘No occasion. It’s just wine.’ She pours the water glass half full of dark liquid. ‘Are you still intending to leave tomorrow?’
I wonder what Gretchen’s told her. Maybe nothing, and I’m just flattering myself. ‘Yes.’
‘What are your plans?’
‘Nothing concrete.’
It doesn’t sound so bad when I say it like that. Mathilde tucks her hair behind one ear.
‘You could always stay here. We could use some help on the farm.’
It’s so far from anything I expect that I think I’ve misunderstood. ‘Sorry, what?’
‘If you don’t have to go straight away then there’s work here that needs doing. If you’re interested.’
‘You’re offering me a job?’
‘Apart from Georges, there are only the three of us. We could use an extra pair of hands, and Gretchen told me you’ve been a builder.’ Her hand goes to tuck her hair back again. ‘You must have seen the condition of the house. The walls badly need repairing.’
‘I’ve worked on building sites but that isn’t the same thing. Why don’t you hire a local builder?’