‘It hasn’t been any better for me, either, God knows,’ he goes on. ‘Bringing up two daughters. A place like this, a man needs a son. Someone who can work with him, take over eventually. I always hoped Marie would give me a boy, but no. Only girls. I thanked Christ when Michel was born, I can tell you. It’s no joke being surrounded by women.’
Arnaud taps out his pipe on the rock, looking at it instead of me.
‘Still, it’s worse for Mathilde. A good-looking woman, still young. She needs a man. A husband, ideally, but you’ve got to be realistic.’ He purses his lips, still considering the pipe. ‘You understand what I’m saying?’
I tip my head, non-committally.
‘Trouble is, the men around here aren’t worth much. Small minds, that’s all they’ve got. Half of them would screw a cow if they could find a stool to stand on, but when it comes to an unmarried woman with another man’s child …’
His sigh is a shade too theatrical.
‘You’d think they’d have more sense than to let their prejudices blind them. I’m not going to live for ever, and Mathilde’s my eldest. Michel won’t be old enough to take over for years, and there’s no saying I’ll still be around to help him when he does. I’m the first to admit this place needs work, but … Well, it doesn’t take much to see the potential. You understand me?’ he asks, looking at me directly for the first time.
‘I think so.’ I understand, all right. It’s not so much that he’d make such a proposal that shocks me, as that he’d make it to me.
He nods, satisfied. ‘I wouldn’t expect anyone to make up his mind straight away. But, for the right sort of man, it’s worth giving some thought, wouldn’t you say?’
‘What would you call the right sort of man?’ I ask, keeping my voice neutral. But perhaps not as neutral as I intend, because Arnaud gives me a shrewd glance.
‘Somebody who can recognize an opportunity when he sees one,’ he retorts. And then, less tartly, ‘Someone I can trust.’
‘Like you trusted Louis?’
Arnaud’s face closes like a trap. He thrusts his pipe into his pocket and stands up.
‘Come on. We’ve wasted enough time.’
I get wearily to my feet and bend to pick up the sack. The snick of the rifle bolt being slid back is unmistakable in the quiet. I turn to find Arnaud standing with the barrel pointing at me.
I don’t move. Then with relief I see that his attention is on Lulu. She’s staring into the trees, ears cocked.
‘What’s she—?’
‘Shh!’
He motions me to one side. The dog is so tense she’s quivering. Arnaud raises the rifle stock to his shoulder, readying himself.
‘Go.’
The word is little more than a whisper, but Lulu begins moving into the woods, stalking in a slow-motion walk. A little way off she halts, one forepaw poised in the air. I still can’t see anything. Suddenly she hurls herself forward. At the same time two birds burst from the grass ahead of her, wheeling into the air in a clatter of wings.
The crack of Arnaud’s rifle makes me jump. One of the birds tumbles from the sky. There’s another crack. The remaining bird veers away, climbing higher. A third shot sounds, but the bird has already lost itself beyond the higher branches.
There’s a muttered curse from Arnaud. He lowers the rifle, clicking his tongue in exasperation. Lulu comes trotting back with her head held high, the bird lolling from her mouth. Arnaud takes it from her and tousles her ears.
‘Good girl.’
For all his disappointment, the shooting has put him in a better humour. He tucks the bird — a partridge, I think — into his knapsack.
‘Time was I’d have got them both. My reactions aren’t what they were. Aim and shoot automatically, that’s what it comes down to. You’ve got to let instinct take over. Make the first shot count.’ He gives me a cold glance. ‘Stop to think about it and you miss your chance.’
I choose to take him literally. ‘Why don’t you use a shotgun?’
‘Shotguns are for people who can’t shoot.’ He rubs the stock of the rifle. ‘This is a 6mm Lebel. Used to be my grandfather’s. Older than me and still fires .22 cartridges true to fifty yards. Here. Feel the weight.’
Reluctantly, I take it from him. It’s surprisingly heavy. The wooden stock is polished a warm satin from use, marred by a crack that runs for half its length. A sulphurous, used-firework smell comes from it.
‘Want to try?’ he asks.
‘No thanks.’
Arnaud’s grin is infuriatingly cocksure as I hand it back. ‘Squeamish again, or just frightened of loud noises?’
‘Both.’ I hoist the sack. ‘Shall we get on?’
It’s late morning when we return to the house. We’ve filled half a dozen sacks with traps, and haven’t even started on the woods by the lake.
‘We’ll do them some other time,’ Arnaud says, rubbing his back. ‘If the police come again they’ll look near the road first.’
The sacks are cumbersome and heavy, so we take one each and leave the rest in the woods. Arnaud dumps his with a clank in the courtyard and gruffly instructs me to fetch the others myself. No surprise there, I think sourly, as he goes into the house. It take me several trips to collect them, lugging one sack at a time over my shoulder like a scrap-iron Santa. By the time the last of them has been safely stowed in the stable block, I’m aching all over and dripping with sweat. Sucking a skinned knuckle, I stand in the courtyard to catch my breath. There’s a movement in the kitchen doorway and Mathilde comes out.
‘Is that the last of them?’ she asks, shielding her eyes from the sun.
‘For now. There’s still the woods around the lake, but we’ve finished up here.’
I can’t tell if she’s pleased or not. ‘Would you like a coffee?’
‘Thanks.’
I follow her inside. Except for Michel, who’s sitting in a wooden playpen, we’re alone in the kitchen. I sit at the table, remembering at the last minute not to sit in Arnaud’s chair.
‘It’s all right, he’s gone to lie down,’ Mathilde says, seeing me avoid it. ‘His back.’
I can’t find it in myself to be sympathetic. ‘Where’s Gretchen?’
‘Collecting eggs. She won’t be long.’ Mathilde spoons ground coffee into the aluminium percolator and sets it on the range. ‘How’s her English progressing?’
It’s the first time she’s asked. I try to be diplomatic. ‘Let’s say I don’t think she’s very interested.’
Mathilde makes no comment to that. She occupies herself at the sink until the percolator begins making choking noises, then takes it from the heat and pours the black liquid into a cup.
‘Aren’t you having any?’ I ask as she brings it over.
‘Not right now.’
She hesitates by the table, though, and then surprises me by sitting down as well. She looks tired and I find myself remembering her father’s proposal. To take my mind off it I sip at the scalding coffee, searching for something to say.
‘Are you sorry the traps have gone?’
It isn’t the best conversational opening, but Mathilde takes it in her stride. ‘No. I never wanted them.’
‘Your father seems to think the farm needs protection.’
She looks at me, then away. The grey eyes are unfathomable. ‘No one can cut themselves off completely.’
For some reason that feels like a reproach. We both watch Michel in his pen, as though hoping he’ll break the silence. He carries on playing, oblivious.
‘Do you—’ I begin, then stop myself.
‘Yes?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
She looks at Michel, as though guessing what I’m going to ask. ‘Go on.’
‘I just wondered … do you ever hear from his father?’
I half-expect her to grow angry. She only shakes her head, still watching Michel. ‘No.’