As I tear a leaf from the choke and bite into it, I catch sight of my watch. It feels both familiar and strange on my wrist, and my stomach sinks to see that only a few minutes have passed since the last time I looked. The hands seem to be moving through honey, as though the farm is slowing the laws of relativity to suit its own rhythm. Or maybe I’m just waiting for something to happen.
‘Going somewhere?’ Arnaud says.
I lower my watch. ‘Just lost track of time.’
‘Why? Don’t tell me you’re tired.’ He gives a wheezing laugh, waving a ruined artichoke at me. ‘You’ve hardly done anything today. The rain’s given you a holiday, what have you got to be tired for?’
There’s a needle-gleam to his eyes. He’s in a good mood, I realize. He’s the only one in the room who is. Gretchen seems determined to out-sulk herself, while Mathilde is even quieter than usual. I wonder if her sister has said anything about this afternoon, and the possibility takes away what little inclination I have to make conversation.
Arnaud remains unaware of the undercurrents around the table, too intent for the moment on his appetite. As Mathilde and Gretchen serve the main course — thin strips of pork with a caper sauce — he speaks to me again.
‘I hear the stitches are out of your foot.’
‘Yes.’
‘So there’s nothing to slow you up any more, eh?’
‘I suppose not.’
‘Something to celebrate for both of us then.’ He reaches for the wine bottle and makes to refill my glass.
‘No, thanks.’
‘Come on, you’re empty. Here.’
I move my glass away. ‘I don’t want any more.’
He frowns, holding the bottle poised so the red liquid is close to spilling from its neck. ‘Why not? Is something wrong with it?’
‘I just don’t feel like drinking.’
Arnaud’s mouth is clamped into a disapproving line. He’s had most of the bottle already, and I doubt it’s his first. He pours himself more, splashing it onto the table. Over by the range, Mathilde flinches as the bottle bangs down.
‘What?’ he demands.
‘Nothing.’
He stares at her, but she keeps her eyes downcast as she returns to her seat. Taking a swig of wine, he impales a piece of meat with his fork and glares around the table as he chews.
‘What’s the matter with everyone tonight?’
No one answers.
‘It’s like eating in a morgue! Is there something going on I don’t know about? Eh?’
The question is met by silence. Across the table, I feel Gretchen’s eyes on me but I pretend not to notice. Arnaud empties his glass. His good mood hasn’t lasted very long. He reaches again for the bottle and sees Mathilde watching him.
‘You want to say something?’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’
He continues to stare, looking for something to criticize. Failing to find it, he takes up his knife and fork and resumes eating. The pork hardly needs chewing. It falls apart, the sauce piquant with garlic and the capers.
‘Not enough seasoning,’ Arnaud grumbles.
The comment goes unacknowledged.
‘I said there’s not enough seasoning.’
Mathilde wordlessly passes him the salt and pepper. He grinds pepper liberally over his food then douses it with salt.
‘I’ve told you often enough to use more when you’re cooking. It kills the flavour putting it on afterwards.’
‘Then why do it?’ I ask before I can stop myself.
Arnaud gives me a poisoned look. ‘Because then at least it tastes of something.’
‘It tastes fine to me,’ I say to Mathilde. ‘It’s delicious.’
She flickers a nervous smile. Her father stares at me across the table, chewing slowly. He swallows, taking his time before answering.
‘And you’d know, would you?’
‘I know what I like.’
‘Is that so? I didn’t realize you were such a gourmand. All this time I thought it was just some no-hope hitch-hiker I’d got living in my barn.’ Arnaud raises his glass in an ironic salute. ‘I’m honoured to have your opinion rammed down my throat.’
The sound of the rain is loud in the sudden silence. Gretchen is watching us wide-eyed. Mathilde starts to get up.
‘There’s some sauce left in the pan—’
‘Sit down.’
‘It’s no trouble. I can—’
‘I said sit down!’
The plates jump as Arnaud’s hand crashes onto the table. Even before the reverberations die away the sound of Michel’s crying comes from upstairs. But no one makes a move to go to him.
‘Why don’t you leave her alone?’ I hear myself say.
Arnaud slowly turns to stare at me. His face is already flushed from the wine, but now it darkens even more. ‘What?’
It feels like I’m running downhill, knowing I’m heading for a fall but carried away by the rush. ‘I said why don’t you leave her alone?’
‘Don’t—’ Mathilde begins, but Arnaud silences her with a raised hand.
‘You hear that, Mathilde? You’ve got a champion!’ He doesn’t take his eyes off me, his voice becoming dangerously low. ‘You sit there, eating my food, drinking my wine, and question me? In my own home?’
Mathilde’s face has paled, while Gretchen’s pretty features have developed an ugly twist. At any other time I might recognize that as a warning, but I’m too focused on Arnaud. His expression is murderous, and a vein beats rapid time on one temple. It makes me glad he doesn’t have his gun to hand.
And then, suddenly, something changes. A glint of calculation comes into his eyes. He shrugs, unclamping his jaw enough to give a forced smile. ‘Ah, to hell with it. I’m not going to argue about a plate of pork. A man’s entitled to his own opinion.’
For a second I’m at a loss, then I get it. He thinks this is about the conversation we had in the woods; his suggestion that I should take Mathilde off his hands. The pent-up tension that’s been building in me all day abruptly deflates.
Arnaud sets about his food again with gusto. ‘So, you like Mathilde’s cooking, eh? Good for you. Perhaps I was a little hasty. You know what they say, a woman who knows how to cook for a man knows how to keep him happy in other ways as well.’
Jesus. I look across at Mathilde, hoping she doesn’t think I’m party to this. Her eyes are averted, but the same can’t be said for her sister’s. Gretchen is glaring at me with a fury that’s drawn the skin of her face taut against its bones. The force of it slaps me like a physical jolt, and then she turns to her father.
‘Papa, I’ve got something to tell you.’
Arnaud waves his fork indulgently, without looking up. ‘Go on.’
I stare at her, not wanting to believe she’s going to do this. But of course she does.
‘I saw Georges in the woods this afternoon. Didn’t he mention it?’
‘No, why should he?’
She looks at me, angelic face dimpling in a vindictive smile. ‘Sean can tell you.’
Arnaud lowers his knife and fork, suspicion replacing his earlier indulgence. ‘Tell me what?’
‘Gretchen, why don’t you—’ Mathilde tries to intervene, but their father isn’t going to be put off.
‘Tell me what?’
They’re all staring at me. The three faces show differing expressions: Arnaud anger, Mathilde fearfulness and Gretchen growing uncertainty, as though she’s belatedly regretting what she’s started. Strangely enough, I feel calm. As though I’ve been trying to find my way to this moment but didn’t realize it until now.