The Wild Land

by Isobel Chace

  She bought some pieces of laurel from a woman at the entrance to the church and stood beside her for a few minutes watching the crowds. Little children, dressed in their best coats and clutching charming little cellophane trees hung about with sweets and chocolates; the old in their inevitable black, the women clutching their shawls over their heads; and the rest, cheerful and laughing, calling out greetings to one another, intermingled with an occasional sharp cry as a child was rebuked.

  “Buy from us! It will bring you luck!” the gipsies cried. “Buy from us—from us!”

  Had she been very foolish to listen to Monsieur Clement? She shivered slightly as she remembered how he had repelled her. He hadn’t even removed his beret! And yet she knew that he had had a good education at some time; his letter had been both clear and well written.

  And now she had bought this land!

  She dipped her finger into the holy water, blessed herself and followed the others into the church.

  Afterwards she went to the cafe where Charles had taken her and ordered rolls and coffee. The local breads fascinated her, varying in taste as they did every few miles. Jeanne had told her that this was because of the different waters and that it was only very recently that the Provencals had trusted their break-making to bakers at all. Before that, she had claimed, every farmhouse had had its own recipe, as she still clung to hers, swearing it to be best.

  Emma dunked her rolls in her coffee and felt very French as she did so. It was good, even if she felt it to be bad-mannered, and she enjoyed every mouthful. There seemed to be more men than usual out in the streets playing boule and the excitement grew as the games progressed. The ground was rough and stony, but the best of them could make very good use of this fact and make it play to their advantage. She wondered if Charles ever played. She could imagine that he would be very good at it, tossing the metal balls and making them pitch at just the right angle.

  She had just finished her coffee when her grandmother came by.

  “What do you do there?” the old lady demanded. “There are things to be done!” But she sank down on to a chair herself and ordered coffee, tearing the paper off the squares of sugar with irritable fingers.

  Emma looked at her with affection. She had become very fond of this fierce old lady. She looked tired, she thought. Her deeply tanned face under her practically white hair hid the fact, but there was no denying the dark circles under her eyes, or that her cheekbones were even more strongly pronounced than usual.

  “You do too much, Grand’mere,” Emma said gently.

  Another lump went into her grandmother’s coffee.

  “And who else would do it? Charles can think of nothing but rice! And you, ma petite, what do you know about bulls or vines?”

  “Nothing,” Emma admitted. “But perhaps I could learn.”

  “Then you must ask Charles to teach you. I, I have not the time. Now it is the grapes! It is because of the catastrophe last year that I worry. All was good, and then the rain came down at the wrong time and they all grow too fast for their skins. They were cracked and useless. I cannot afford to have this happen again!”

  “I should think not!” Emma exclaimed. “What does Charles suggest?” She too, it seemed, had fallen into the same habit as everyone else. Charles would know! Charles would have the answer! We will do whatever Charles says! She felt quite impatient with herself and wished that she could recall the question, especially when she saw the anxious look on her grandmother’s face.

  “He would say grow rice,” Madame answered simply. She sighed deeply. “It would be so easy. I have several places which I could turn into rice fields, pump water to them, and that would be that! No more of these tedious worries!”

  “Then wouldn’t that be the answer?”

  “No!” Her grandmother almost spat out the word. “Do you think the French will stand for hours in the water! No, no, and again no! It would mean having imported labour as the other rice-growers have. The Spaniards, the Italians, the Algerians. They make money, and perhaps I make money. But do the local people? Nothing at all! All, all is taken from this land, and they grow poorer and poorer. I—” She broke off, wiping away the tears that flowed unrestrainedly down her cheeks. She leaned forward and patted Emma’s hand, a smile breaking through her tears. “I am a ridiculous old woman, am I not? Charles would say so. But now is the time to be happy. We will think no more of vines and rice—both bring nothing but trouble. Instead we shall think of my beautiful bulls. Ils sont vraiment formidables! You shall see! This afternoon, you shall see!”

  The first green of the tamarisks glowed under the hot sun, the darker, bluer green of the saltwort contrasting with it. In patches the reeds grew brown and shoulder-high, and occasionally the blue of water would shine through them, warning of hidden etangs, or of dark muddy patches where a stranger could flounder for hours before anyone would know he was lost.

  A little group of cars had gathered, bringing the local manadiers and their gardiens, their wives and their families, and a group of young men who belonged to a school in Arles and whose job it would be to keep the cattle under control and to stop them from charging the onlookers. They were the future gardiens and the future razateurs, the men who tackle the bulls in the Provencal Courses Libres.

  Emma could see Guy and Jean-Claude riding together towards the herd, their tridents held languidly across their saddles. Georges and making his way up the other side, chatting to a friend. There was no sign of Charles, nor yet of Sam—if he were coming. It was funny how she always seemed to find herself looking for Charles now. She wasn’t happy unless she could see him somewhere about. She would have to pull herself together. She straightened her shoulders determinedly and hoisted herself on to the fencing that surrounded the corral, wincing as her ankle gave a sudden twinge of pain. The music was beginning again, remote and disembodied by the microphones, playing, quite incongruously, “Charlie is my darling”.

  Her grandmother came and sat beside her.

  “Why don’t they begin?” she demanded. “It will be lunchtime soon if they don’t hurry!” She called out to Georges and he came cantering over to her. “Get them to start if you can,” she told him. “I know that everyone hasn’t arrived yet, but we can’t wait all day!”

  Georges grinned and touched his hat.

  “You will never get the people of the Midi to run to time, Madame,” he reminded her, not without pride. “It will not be long now, though. I’ll go and give them a push.”

  Madame Yourievska consulted her watch and muttered under her breath.

  “I cannot understand why things don’t begin when they say they will,” she complained. “Where is Charles? He said he would make sure they were all branded correctly.”

  Emma looked round the gathering crowd. There was Charles! He was talking to Marie-Françoise, who was looking prettier than ever. Emma looked away again hastily, but not before she saw that he had Sam with him as well. They all came over together laughing at some joke that Sam had made.

  “Grand’mere, I want you to meet a friend of mine,” Emma began.

  “A school friend of Emma’s,” Charles added thoughtfully.

  “Sam McGuire,” Emma ended.

  “A friend from England?” Madame asked, surprise in her voice.

  “An American, actually,” Sam said easily. “From Dallas, Texas. I want to thank you, ma’am. I haven’t seen a sight like this since I left the States. It was surely nice of you to ask me.”

  Madame regarded him with a frosty dignity.

  “Is that so? Well, you must thank my granddaughter, young man, because I issued no such invitation.”

  Sam grinned.

  “I guess it was your ramrod—” He broke off, catching sight of Emma’s face. “Have I said something, honey?”

  “Monsieur Rideau is my grandmother’s partner. I told you, Sam,” Emma said uncomfortably.

  “Why, so you did,” Sam agreed. “Her partner.”

  Emma’s eyes went straight to C
harles’ face, but he had his hat over his eyes again. She wriggled into a more comfortable position on the fence.

  “One thing,” she said nervously, “we have a lovely day for it.” And wondered why they all laughed. Especially Charles. He threw back his head and she could see his eyes then. They were alight with laughter and the lines round his eyes, caused by looking into a hot horizon for so much of his working day, creased in the most attractive way.

  “We’ll have to hope it keeps fine for you,” he drawled, and laughed again.

  At last something was happening. Charles stood in the middle of the corral with the branding iron in his hand. Emma could see that it was the same sign of a shield containing a crescent moon that she had noticed on the car. The sign of the Mas Camarica, the sign of possession—her grandmother’s possession; she wouldn’t think of Charles’s share, and she felt a certain amount of pride in the old lady’s achievement.

  The young men from Arles, bright in their checked shirts, formed themselves into a semi-circle, their jaws tight with concentration. The gardiens pushed the first young bull towards them and the first in line threw him as easily as if he had been no more than a puppy, holding him down while he received the brand.

  The young bull rose in a fury and charged everything in sight. It was easy to see the pure strength of the creature even though he was only one year old. Emma watched with her heart in her mouth as the young men distracted his attention from Charles and from the spectators, cleverly persuading him to move in the direction they wanted. At last, in a fury, he charged at one of them for the last time and rushed back to the herd.

  Emma took a deep breath of relief. It was all very well to know that Charles could look after himself, but she worried all the same. At least he would never know—she could imagine his caustic comments if he did—but he looked so fine, stripped to the waist, his muscles standing out in the hot sunshine. She had no right to worry about him, she reminded herself, but one doesn’t worry or not worry to order. It was something that crept up on one and one found oneself doing it—like loving a person, but she wouldn’t think of that!

  Sam, on the other hand, was wild with enthusiasm.

  “My word, they have some spirit!” he exclaimed. “I’d like to try to throw one myself. A little different from the steers back home!”

  “Don’t you have any bulls?” Emma asked him.

  He shook his head.

  “Not on my people’s place. We buy them a few weeks old and fatten them up for market. Texas has some of the best ranges for cattle in the world.” He chuckled. “I wonder what they’d say to this place!”

  “What’s wrong with it?” Emma demanded belligerently.

  “My dear girl, any ordinary beast would starve to death on it. Are you coming to watch me throw one of those critters?”

  Emma shuddered. What got into men that they had to do these things? She looked up and saw with relief that Charles had handed over the branding iron to someone else and was coming over towards them. He leaned against the fence with the same economy of movement that she was beginning to associate with him.

  “They’re a pretty good bunch this year,” he said laconically.

  “I’ll say!” Sam enthused. “I’m going closer. I’ll see you, Emma.”

  Emma opened her mouth to stop him and then shut it again. If he wanted to show off he could go and get on with it. She had other things to worry about. This melting feeling somewhere in her middle, for instance. And the awful feeling of fright that came over her whenever she thought of Charles getting to know about the land she had bought.

  “How’s the foot?” he asked. “The swelling seems to have gone down.”

  She nodded.

  “It’s better,” she said. She watched Sam go closer to the young men and finally speak to one of them, and found that she couldn’t just ignore it after all. “Charles, they wouldn’t let him try to throw one, would they?”

  Charles shrugged his shoulders.

  “Maybe. It depends how he asks them.”

  “But it’s madness! We must stop him!” She clambered off the fence, thinking what a tiresome person Sam could be. “He’ll hurt himself,” she said. “I know he will!”

  Charles put out a hand to help her.

  “They won’t allow him to come to any harm. He’ll come back to you in one piece all right.”

  It was impossible to say that she didn’t much care one way or the other. It was simply common humanity to try and stop him, surely Charles could see that?

  “But they’re trained to throw bulls,” she heard herself objecting. “He’s probably never thrown one in his life before! I have to stop him!”

  Charles’s arm went round her and scooped her back on to her perch on the fence.

  “You’ll do no such thing,” he told her sternly. “He won’t thank you for interfering. He’s a man wanting to show off his courage and his strength. If he gets hurt, that’s his own look-out. All he wants from you is admiration afterwards.”

  Emma swallowed. Admiration indeed! And yet wouldn’t she give it to Charles if he wanted it?

  “Would you want to throw one?” she asked him.

  He grinned.

  “Why not? I’ve tackled bigger ones than these.”

  He wasn’t boasting. Emma couldn’t tell how she knew it, but she did. She gave a helpless little gesture.

  “To impress Marie-Françoise, I suppose!”

  He pulled his hat further down over his eyes.

  “You’re getting the idea,” he agreed. “Want to go and watch?”

  She didn’t but she didn’t seem to have much choice in the matter.

  “I still can’t see why he should think I’ll like him better because he can throw a bull!” she said crossly.

  Charles picked a caterpillar off the sleeve of her shirt.

  “Perhaps he doesn’t want you to like him,” he suggested mildly.

  The bull, black and sleek, pawed nervously at the ground, his uncertain temper showing in the way he started at every sound. The gardiens waved their hats and their tridents behind him and he made a rush forward. Sam stood his ground, crouching slightly as he prepared for his moment. A second later and he had grasped the beast round his neck, pulling him down to the ground. But the bull was stronger than he had imagined and refused to be thrown so easily. Sam held on, regained his balance and tried again. This time the bull fell heavily into the dust and the young men closed in.

  Emma took an uncertain glance and heaved a sigh of relief. If he had managed so far, perhaps he did, after all, know what he was doing. The bull scrambled to his feet, bellowed at the top of his voice and rushed back to the herd, to the accompanying hoots from the crowd.

  Sam stood with his hands on his hips, openly triumphant. The dust stained his clothing a reddish yellow and the sweat ran in little rivulets down his face. He looked every inch a hero.

  “Did I not tell you so?” Charles asked, a faint contemptuous amusement running like a thread through his words. “Aren’t you going to acclaim him?”

  But Emma was saved from having to do any such thing by her grandmother insisting that is was now time to eat. She felt slightly sick and her ankle ached. Was Charles really so uninterested in her that he had to push her in Sam’s direction?

  She heard Jean-Claude objecting that they had not yet finished and her grandmother’s acid retort that if they had begun on time there would have been no difficulty.

  “There is plenty of meat and bread for everyone who has forgotten lunch,” she added to the spectators.

  Emma went with Jeanne to the house and was surprised to find Marie-Françoise already there, chopping up the loaves of bread on a guillotine.

  “It was terrific, was it not?” she demanded of them both. “He is brave, this American.” She shuddered dramatically. “I would have been afraid, wouldn’t you? He is truly a man, I think!”

  Emma repressed a smile. Poor Sam! He had certainly impressed the wrong woman!

  She packed a
basket with the household’s lunch, picked it up, a little surprised at how heavy it was, and carrying the wine bottles under one arm she set off back to the corral, hobbling a little as her ankle protested vigorously under the extra weight.

  “Give it to me,” Charles said as soon as he saw her. “I thought you might like to have lunch in my cabane out of the sun. Tante Marrsha will be coming, and Marie-Françoise.”

  “And Sam?” she asked.

  It was odd, but he sounded a little disappointed.

  “And Sam also if you like,” he agreed.

  Emma had not been inside a cabane before. The rectangular thatched huts, rounded on the windward side, were distinctive and typical. They were simple, with a chimney at one end and a bent-in cross at the top of the rounded end, following the angle of the roof. They were always white and neat and clean-looking. Charles’s was the same as a hundred others. He had painted the windows and the doors a bright shade of green, and inside he had hung them with the same scarlet material that her grandmother had in her kitchen.

  There was only one room inside. A bed was pushed well up one end, leaving most of it free for living space. There was a table, a sideboard and a number of chairs, some lovely earthenware pots, holding water, salt, and anything else that was wanted, and harness hung from the one rounded wall, smelling of leather and polish.

  “If you start setting everything out, I’ll go and get the others,” Charles suggested. “Like it?”

  She did like it. She liked the way he kept it, even while she wondered if he were content with such a spartan home. And she liked that indefinable something that would have told her that this cabin belonged to Charles and to nobody else even if no one had told her.

  “Do you always live here?” she asked.

  He smiled.

  “Why not?” he asked. “I like to be free.”

  When he had gone she found some American cloth on the sideboard and spread it over the table, wondering whether he had it for preference or whether plastic materials had not yet come to this corner of France. It gave her pleasure to set out the picnic, to handle Charles’s things and to set them off to advantage. She had even managed to sneak half a pound of butter from the stores, for try as she would she could not accustom herself to the French habit of eating dry bread.