‘Where is he?’
There’s the slightest of shrugs. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Doesn’t he want to see his own son?’
I regret it the moment it’s out. Of all people, I’ve no right to ask something like that. There’s a beat before Mathilde answers.
‘Michel wasn’t planned. And Louis never liked responsibility.’
I’ve already asked more than I should. Yet there’s a sense of intimacy between us I’m sure I’m not imagining. Something about the way she sits there makes me want to reach out: instead I wrap both hands around the coffee cup.
‘Haven’t you ever thought about going away? Just you and Michel?’
She looks startled by my bluntness. So am I, but the more I see of her father and sister — even Georges — the more I think that Mathilde is the only sane person on this farm. She deserves better.
‘This is my home,’ she says quietly.
‘People leave home all the time.’
‘My father—’ She breaks off. When she carries on I have the feeling that it isn’t what she was going to say. ‘My father dotes on Michel. I couldn’t take him away.’
‘He’d still have Gretchen.’
Mathilde looks out of the window. ‘It’s not the same. He always wanted a son. Daughters were always … a disappointment. Even Gretchen. Now he has a grandson, he expects him to be brought up on the farm.’
‘That doesn’t mean you have to go along with it. You’ve got your own life.’
Her chest silently rises and falls. The only sign of any agitation is the quick pulse in her throat. ‘I couldn’t leave Gretchen. And she wouldn’t come with me.’
No, she probably wouldn’t, I think, remembering what her sister has said about her. Still, Mathilde’s acceptance is infuriating. I want to ask if she thinks Gretchen would do the same for her, to tell her she’s wasting her life at the beck and call of a man who’s just tried to barter her away like damaged goods. But I’ve already said more than I should, and at that moment the kitchen door opens and Gretchen walks in.
‘The hen with the bad eye’s getting worse,’ she says, hugging a bowl of eggs to her stomach. ‘I think we should—’
She stops when she sees us. Mathilde stands up and quickly moves away from the table. I feel myself colouring, as though we’ve been caught out.
‘What’s he doing here?’ Gretchen asks.
‘Just taking a break,’ I say, getting to my feet.
Mathilde begins washing the percolator. ‘What’s that about the hen?’
Gretchen doesn’t answer, but her face says it all.
‘I’d better get back to work,’ I say, going past her to the door. ‘Thanks for the coffee.’
Mathilde gives a quick nod of acknowledgement but doesn’t look round. Gretchen ignores me completely, her eyes locked on her sister’s back. I go outside, but I’ve not gone far before raised voices come through the open kitchen window. They’re indistinct at first, but then one of them — Gretchen’s — gains in pitch and volume until the words themselves become audible.
‘… do what you say? Why do you always try to spoil everything!’
I can’t make out Mathilde’s reply, only its placating tone. Gretchen’s voice grows more strident.
‘Yes, you do! What gives you the right to tell me what to do? I’m sick of you acting like—’
There’s a sharp crack of flesh on flesh. A moment later the door is flung open and Gretchen bursts out. I quickly move into the stable block as Mathilde appears in the doorway.
‘Gretchen!’
She sounds anguished. Gretchen spins around to face her, revealing a reddened imprint on her cheek.
‘I hate you!’
She runs across the courtyard. Mathilde starts after her, but halts at the sound of Michel’s crying. The unhappiness is written plain on her face before she notices me. Turning away, she goes back inside to her son.
I step out of the stable block’s shelter, making sure first that Gretchen has gone. Whatever problem she has with Mathilde, I’d rather not be caught in the middle of it. The farm’s usual quiet has returned. I head back for the barn, unsure what to do. There’s no point in mixing up a batch of mortar; it must be nearly lunch time and after my early start I don’t feel like clambering up the scaffold straight away. The coffee has left me thirstier than ever, so I go to the tap for a drink. As usual, the barn is cool and smells of old wood and sour wine. I turn the tap on, cupping my hands under the cold spatter. Over the top of its splashing I hear another noise. Turning off the tap, I go out of the barn, wiping my wet hands on my overalls. There’s a ruckus coming from the woods down by the lake. It’s too far away to make much out, but from the squeals it sounds like another sow is meeting its maker.
Then I hear the scream.
It’s Gretchen.
I set off down the track, stabbing my walking stick down in a gait that’s half-run, half-skip. The commotion becomes louder as I near the sanglochon pens. Shouts, barking, squealing. When I reach the clearing I see Georges, the boar and Lulu engaged in a complex dance. The old man is trying to herd the boar back into its pen while Lulu makes mad dashes at it. Enraged, the boar is wheeling round to try to get at her, thumping against the piece of board Georges is using to push it and almost barging the old man off his feet.
Nearby, Gretchen presses her hands to her mouth, transfixed.
‘Get the dog!’ Georges is shouting at her, struggling to block the boar and kick the spaniel away at the same time. ‘Get hold of it!’
Gretchen doesn’t move. I can see the old man is tiring. His attempts to keep the two animals apart are growing laboured. He glances around as I enter the clearing, and Lulu takes that moment to dart behind his legs. He staggers, losing his grip on the board, and as the dog tries to jink away the boar surges forward. There’s a shrill cry and an audible crunch as its jaws close on the spaniel’s hind leg.
I plough straight into the boar without slowing, hoping to knock it away from the dog. It’s like running into a tree trunk. My momentum carries me over its back, the breath huffing from me as I pitch onto the ground on the other side. I scramble away, frantically kicking at the thing’s tusks as it turns on me, and then Georges thrusts the board between us.
‘Get the other one!’ he shouts.
It’s propped against the fence. I grab it and rush back, snatching up my walking stick from where it landed. Pushing my board next to Georges’s, I bring the stick down on the boar’s head.
‘Not so hard!’ Georges snaps.
The boar doesn’t feel it anyway. It butts and thrusts at our boards as the spaniel crawls and flops away, her leg trailing behind her. Then Arnaud is there as well, adding his weight to ours. The three of us push and slap at the pig, using the boards to block its vision until at last we manage to steer it back inside its pen. It throws itself against the fence but Arnaud has already slammed and fastened the gate.
His face is grim as he turns to Georges, breathing heavily. ‘How did he get out?’
‘The gate was open,’ Georges states flatly. He’s the least winded of the three of us.
‘Christ almighty, didn’t you check it?’
The old man gives Arnaud a reproving look. ‘Yes.’
‘It couldn’t have opened itself!’
‘No,’ Georges agrees.
Arnaud’s face sets. ‘Where’s Gretchen?’
She’s nowhere in sight. Mathilde is there, though, crouching by the spaniel. It’s panting in shock, one hind paw hanging by threads of bloody tissue. Arnaud looks down at it, tight-mouthed.
‘I’ll fetch my rifle.’
Mathilde begins trying to lift the dog.
‘What are you doing?’ he asks.