Stone Bruises

by Simon Beckett

  I don’t mind: it feels like honest pain. But I must have caught my watch as well, because there’s a crack running across its face. The sight of it cuts through my mood like a slap. It’s still working but I take it off and slip it into my pocket anyway. I don’t want to damage it any more, and the watch is an uncomfortable reminder of things I’d rather forget.

  Besides, I don’t need to know the time while I’m here: the farm operates to its own rhythm. Taking off the cap from my sweat-damp hair, I look at what I’ve achieved. The newly hacked-out mortar is paler than the older areas, but also dispiritingly small seen against the expanse of wall that remains. Still, I’ve made a start, and that feels surprisingly good.

  Leaving the hammer and chisel on the platform, I climb slowly down the ladder. The sun-heated rungs sting my blisters, and each step is an effort. I’d kill for a beer, I think, limping into the storeroom to collect my clothes. A bottle – no, a glass. Tall and amber and misted with condensation. I can almost taste it.

  Tormenting myself with the thought, I go back into the courtyard. I don’t notice Mathilde until I hear a crash of breaking crockery. I look round and see her in the doorway with Michel on one arm. At her feet is a shattered bowl of eggs, the bright yellow yolks smearing the cobbles.

  She’s staring at me, white-faced.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to surprise you,’ I say.

  ‘No, I … I didn’t realize you were there.’

  Her eyes stray to the red overalls I’m wearing, and suddenly I think I understand. ‘There’s no shade up there so I put these on. I hope that’s OK?’

  ‘Of course,’ she says, too quickly.

  I feel bad for giving her a shock but I wasn’t to know wearing the overalls would upset her. Her reaction makes me think I’m right about Michel’s father, but she’s already recovered her poise. The baby contentedly gums a piece of bread as she moves him to a more comfortable position.

  ‘How’s the work gone?’

  ‘Good. Well, OK.’ I shrug, trying to see where I’ve hacked out. It’s hardly visible from down here. ‘I’ve made a start, anyway.’

  Mathilde holds out her hand for my bundled-up clothes. ‘Would you like me to wash those?’

  ‘Thanks.’ I don’t argue. The freezing water in the barn won’t get rid of the sanglochon smell, and I don’t relish washing in it myself. I’m tempted to ask if I can take a shower or a bath, but I can imagine what Arnaud would say to that. Well, if I can’t have a hot bath or a cold beer, there’s one thing I’d like at least.

  ‘You said earlier there was somewhere I could buy cigarettes. How far away is it?’

  ‘A couple of kilometres. Too far for you to walk.’

  ‘I don’t mind. I can take my time.’

  It isn’t as if I’ve anything else to do. Now I’ve stopped working the endorphin high is starting to fade and my nerves are already beginning to jangle. It’ll be worse knowing I can’t calm them with a cigarette.

  Mathilde glances back at the house, as though debating something. She pushes a strand of hair behind her ear.

  ‘Give me half an hour.’

  8

  YELLOW DUST BILLOWS up around the van as it bounces over the track’s potholed surface. Mathilde is driving with the windows down, trying to dissipate some of the heat that’s built up inside during the day. The vinyl of the seats is torn, white wadding showing through in places. Mine has been mended, if it can be called that, with black electrical tape. Despite the open windows, the van smells of diesel, dog and stale pipe tobacco.

  When I went back to the house after getting washed and changed Mathilde and Gretchen were arguing in the doorway. I stopped at the corner of the courtyard, not wanting to interrupt.

  ‘But it doesn’t need doing!’ Gretchen was insisting.

  ‘Yes, it does.’

  ‘Georges cleaned it yesterday! They’re only pigs, they don’t mind what they eat!’

  ‘Please, just do as you’re told.’

  ‘Papa didn’t say I had to. Why do I always have to do what you say? You’re just trying to get me out of the way so you can go into town with him—’

  ‘Just do it!’

  It was the first time I’d heard Mathilde raise her voice. Gretchen flounced away, not so much as pausing when she saw me at the bottom of the courtyard.

  ‘I hope you enjoy yourselves!’ she snapped, flip-flops cuffing the cobbles as she marched past.

  I watched her stomp off down the track towards the woods, then looked back at Mathilde. She was staring at the cobblestones, her posture tired. Then, realizing I was there, she straightened. Wordlessly, she went to the van, leaving me to follow her.

  She doesn’t speak a word as she drives up the track to the road. When we reach the closed gate she stops, leaving the ignition running as she climbs out.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ I offer.

  ‘It’s all right.’

  The padlock is obviously stiff, but eventually she manages to unlock it. She swings the gate open, lifting it up the last few feet to keep it from dragging on the ground. Returning to the van, she drives out onto the road, then gets out again to shut the gate. In the wing mirror I see her fastening the padlock, securing the farm behind us.

  ‘Why do you keep it locked?’ I ask when she gets back in, remembering how I’d found the gate open when I came for water.

  ‘My father prefers it.’

  She seems to think that’s all the explanation that’s needed. Maybe it is, but as she sets off I still wonder who’d left the gate open before.

  Being outside again is like re-entering a world I’d forgotten exists. I’m not prepared for how exposed I feel, how used I’ve become to the farm’s insular universe. But I’m soon lulled by the warm evening, and the steady note of the van’s engine. Beginning to enjoy myself, I rest my arm on the open window and let the slipstream buffet my face. The air has a warm, summer smell of pollen and tarmac. Mathilde, though, is less relaxed. And in a hurry to get back, judging by how fast she’s driving.

  The old van vibrates under the sustained speed. The grey strip of road stretches ahead of us. Wheat fields come right to the roadside, broken up with tall and feathery poplars and fatter trees that look like broccoli florets.

  Mathilde’s hand brushes my arm as she shifts down a gear when the van begins to grumble on an incline. It’s accidental, but suddenly I’m aware of her rather than our surroundings. She’s wearing a white shirt, cotton sleeves rolled just below her elbows. Her hands look weathered on the steering wheel. Against the brown skin her chipped fingernails are pink with health.

  The silence, which until then I haven’t noticed, begins to feel uncomfortable.

  ‘Where did you learn to speak English?’ I ask to break it.

  She blinks as though her thoughts are far away. ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘You spoke English when I first woke in the loft. Did you learn it at school?’

  ‘My mother taught me. She was a teacher, before she got married. Languages. English, German and Italian.’

  ‘So do you speak all of those?’

  ‘Not really. A little Italian, but I’ve forgotten most of that now.’

  ‘How about Gretchen?’ I ask, remembering her sister’s blank face when I lapsed into English.

  ‘No. My mother died before Gretchen was old enough to learn,’ Mathilde says flatly, and then: ‘We’re here.’

  She pulls into the forecourt of a dirty white building. It’s little more than a shack with a garage at one side and a bar-tabac at the other. A rusted sign for Stella Artois hangs outside, and a few battered tables and chairs stand under a faded awning.

  Mathilde pulls up by one of the pumps. She seems calm enough, but there’s a tiny pulse visible in the open neck of her shirt, fluttering like a trip hammer. For some reason I feel sorry for her, and what I say next surprises me as much as her.

  ‘Do you want to come in for a drink?’

  She looks at me, and for a second there’s a flash of what coul
d be alarm. Then it’s gone. ‘No, thank you. But I need fuel, so there’s time if you want one.’

  My face is red as I unfasten my seatbelt. As it slithers over me I have a sudden flashback to the bloodstained seatbelt in the Audi, and quickly climb out. The hum of the pump starts from behind me as I settle the crutch under my arm and go across the dusty concrete to the bar.

  Inside it’s dark, unlit except by the window and open doorway. There aren’t many customers: three or four men at the tables and an older one sitting at the bar. The barman is drawing a beer as I enter, expertly flipping up the tap to stop the flow, then whisking the foam from the top with a wooden spatula. He sets it down for the old man, who doesn’t look up from his newspaper. I get one or two glances as I limp in, but it feels so good to be in a bar again, back in society, that I almost commit the unforgivable sin of smiling.

  Instead, keeping my face acceptably deadpan, I go and sit on one of the high stools.

  ‘Six packs of Camels and a beer,’ I say, in response to the enquiring lift of the barman’s chin.

  He’s a thin man in his fifties, receding hair brushed sideways to hide a balding crown. I know how John Mills felt in Ice Cold in Alex as I watch him pour the beer, angling the stemmed glass so that the foam doesn’t become too thick. I’ve worked in enough bars myself to appreciate the practised way he does it, but the associations that accompany the memory are unwelcome. I put them from my mind as he sets the beer down in front of me.

  The glass is cold and beaded with condensation. Slowly, I raise it to my lips and drink. The beer is icy and clean, with a faint flavour of hops. I make myself stop before I empty the glass completely, lower it, and breathe a sigh.

  The barman is watching me. ‘Good?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘Another?’

  I’m tempted, but I don’t want to keep Mathilde waiting. From where I am I can see the van through the window, but she’s out of sight around the far side. ‘Better not.’

  The barman wipes the counter. ‘Travelled far?’

  ‘No, I’m staying round here.’

  ‘Whereabouts?’

  I’m already regretting saying anything. But he’s looking at me, waiting. ‘A farm, just up the road.’

  ‘The Dubreuil place?’

  ‘No.’ I tell myself it hardly matters: no one here knows me. ‘They’re called Arnaud.’

  The barman pauses his wiping to stare at me. Then he calls to someone behind me at the tables. ‘Hey, Jean-Claude, this guy’s staying at Arnaud’s farm!’

  Conversations stop. There’s a rustle as the old man reading the newspaper lowers it to watch. Bewildered, I look around. Everyone’s attention is on a burly character in dust-covered bib-and-brace overalls. He’s around forty, with a dark growth of stubble and black eyebrows that form a single line across the bridge of his nose. He puts down his beer glass and looks at me, taking in my red hair, bandaged foot and the crutch.

  ‘English?’ His voice is brusque but not hostile.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘So you’re working for Arnaud?’

  I give what I hope is a nonchalant shrug. ‘Just passing through.’

  ‘Passing through his daughters, you mean,’ someone from another table comments. He’s younger than me, with oil-stained jeans and a nasty grin. There’s a general chuckling from the group he’s with, but the burly man doesn’t join in.

  ‘Watch your mouth, Didier.’

  The laughter dies away. I finish my beer without tasting it. I glance outside to see if Mathilde’s finished filling up. I can’t see her.

  ‘What happened to your foot?’ the man asks.

  ‘I trod on a nail.’ It’s the first thing that comes to mind.

  ‘Must have been a big nail.’

  ‘It was.’

  The barman puts my cigarettes down. My face is flaming as I cram them in my pockets and fumble for the money. He halfdrops my change so the coins roll on the counter. As I gather it up the door opens.

  It’s Mathilde.

  Her footsteps are the only sound as she comes over to the bar. Her face is composed, but there’s a flush to her throat and cheeks.

  ‘I’d like to pay for the fuel.’

  The barman looks over at the burly individual in bib and braces, then rings in the sale. Only then does Mathilde acknowledge the other man’s presence, although the way she turns to face him tells me she’s known he’s there all along.

  ‘Jean-Claude.’

  ‘Mathilde.’

  It’s agonizingly formal. Nothing else is said as the barman hands her the change. More politely than he did mine, I notice. He even inclines his head slightly as she takes it.

  ‘Thank you.’

  I can feel them all watching us as we walk to the door. I let her go out first, so I’m not sure if she hears the quick pig-grunt from the one called Didier or the stifled laughter that follows it. I close the door without looking back and limp after her as quickly as I can. Neither of us speaks as we get into the van. I wait for her to say something, but she starts the engine and pulls out without a word.

  ‘Nice neighbours,’ I comment.

  Mathilde stares through the insect-flecked windscreen. ‘They’re not used to strangers.’

  I don’t think it was my being a stranger that was the problem. I want to ask why Arnaud’s name prompted such a reaction, and who Jean-Claude is. But Mathilde’s manner makes it clear she doesn’t want to talk about it.

  As we drive back to the farm in silence, I wonder if I’ve just met Michel’s father.

  It’s a relief to be inside the farm’s borders again. A fragile sense of security returns as Mathilde closes the gate behind us and re-fastens the padlock. She’s filled fuel cans as well as the van’s tank, but declines my offer to help unload them. ‘I’ll bring your dinner later,’ is all she says.

  The beautiful evening is lost on me as I go back down to the barn. I know I can’t stay hidden on the farm for ever but I wish I’d never let Mathilde take me to the bar. I’ve drawn attention to myself needlessly, all for the sake of a beer and a few packs of cigarettes. And I don’t even know why. I’m not surprised that there’s no love lost between Arnaud and his neighbours – God knows, it’s hard to imagine him getting on with anybody. Even so, the atmosphere in the bar seemed about more than the usual small-town feud.

  He must have really pissed someone off.

  I take the cigarettes up to the loft. I’m getting adept at handling the steps, and when I stop when I reach the first-floor gallery it isn’t because I’m out of breath.

  The trapdoor is open.

  I remember closing it when I left. I pause, listening, but there’s no noise coming from inside. I go up the rest of the steps as quietly as I can, although anyone up there must have heard me by now. Then I look through the open hatchway.

  Gretchen is sitting on the bed. Her back is to me and my rucksack is beside her, half its contents scattered on the mattress. I don’t see the polythene package, but it was buried right at the bottom. Gretchen evidently found what she wanted before she got that far. She’s moving her head rhythmically, the earphones almost hidden in her thick hair. I can hear the tinny whisper of music from them as I go up the rest of the steps and walk up behind her, no longer trying to be silent.

  She opens her eyes in surprise as I lean down and switch off the MP3 player. ‘Oh! I didn’t hear you.’

  ‘What are you doing?’

  I try not to sound angry but it comes out accusing. Gretchen looks instantly guilty.

  ‘Nothing. I was only listening to some music.’

  I grab a handful of clothes and begin stuffing them back into the rucksack. As I do I feel to make sure the package is in there. Some of the tension leaves me when I touch the plastic wrapper, but my hands are still shaking.

  ‘You should ask.’

  ‘I did! You said I could!’

  Now she mentions it, I can vaguely recall saying something. It was when I thought I was leaving the ne
xt day, though, and I’d forgotten all about it. Gretchen obviously hasn’t. ‘I meant when I was here,’ I say, less heatedly.

  ‘It’s our barn. I don’t need your permission.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean you can go through my things.’

  ‘You think I’m interested in your old socks and T-shirts?’ She’s becoming angry herself. ‘I don’t like your stupid music anyway! And if Papa knew I was here you’d be in trouble!’

  There seems a flaw in that logic, but I don’t have the energy to argue. ‘Look, I’m sorry I snapped. I just wasn’t expecting anyone up here.’

  Gretchen seems mollified. Showing no sign of wanting to leave, she leans against the rocking horse, stroking its mane as I take the cigarettes and lighter from my pockets and drop them on the mattress.

  ‘Can I try one?’

  ‘Do you smoke?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then you shouldn’t start.’

  I know I’m being hypocritical but I can’t help it. Gretchen pouts. ‘Why are you in such a bad mood?’

  ‘I’m just tired. It’s been a busy day.’

  She considers that, fingers twirling a hank of black horsehair. ‘How long are you going to stay? Until you’ve finished the whole house?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ I’m trying hard not to think that far ahead.

  ‘Papa says you’re running away from something.’

  ‘Papa doesn’t know everything.’

  ‘He knows more than you. I’m not sure he even likes you. But if you’re nice to me I’ll put in a good word.’

  I don’t say anything to that. Hoping she’ll take the hint and leave, I gather up another T-shirt from the bed. Something falls from it.

  It’s the photograph.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Gretchen asks.

  ‘No one.’

  I go to pick it up but Gretchen beats me to it. She holds the photograph away from me, teasingly.

  ‘I thought you didn’t have a girlfriend?’