He hits me in the face.
There’s a burst of light. I stagger sideways, swinging the stick blindly. It’s knocked from my hand. As it clatters to the ground something drives into my stomach, forcing the breath from me. I double up, raising my hands in a futile attempt to protect my head.
‘What’s going on?’
The voice is deeper and authoritative. Gasping, I look up as someone shoulders my attackers aside. Still bent over, all I can make out is a pair of bib-and-braces overalls. I raise my head further and see the brawny man from the roadside bar, the one Mathilde called Jean-Claude. Behind him is the boules player who was on the phone earlier, standing well back as the newcomer confronts the three younger men.
‘I said what’s going on?’
Didier answers sullenly. ‘Nothing.’
‘This is nothing, is it? And does Philippe know one of his mechanics is bumming off work doing this sort of “nothing” in the town square?’
‘Keep out of it, Jean-Claude.’
‘Why? So you stupid shits can beat someone up in the middle of town?’
‘It’s none of your business.’
‘None of my business? Whose business is it if it isn’t mine? Yours?’
‘He’s working for Arnaud. He’s got no right to be here.’
‘And you have?’ The man’s stubbled face is growing darker. ‘OK, if you’re going to beat anyone up you can start with me.’
‘Jean-Claude—’
‘What are you waiting for?’ He spreads his hands, looking capable of snapping all three younger men in half. ‘Come on, hero, I’m waiting.’
Didier looks down at his feet.
‘No? Lost your taste for it?’ The man shakes his head, disgusted. ‘Go on, fuck off, all of you.’
They don’t move.
‘I said go!’
Reluctantly, they begin to drift away. Didier pauses long enough to point at me.
‘Don’t think this is over.’
The man watches them stalk off. ‘You all right?’
I nod, but I have to lean against the fountain to hide my shaking. My cheek hurts from Didier’s punch and my stomach feels bruised, but there’s nothing serious.
I raise a hand in acknowledgement as the old boules player goes back to the game, then retrieve my walking stick and straighten to face the man who’s just saved me. I don’t blame my attackers for backing down. He’s about my height, but there’s the solidness of a rock about him, and the thick hands are so calloused they look incapable of bleeding.
‘Thanks,’ I say.
‘Forget it. I should be the one apologizing.’ He shakes his head in disgust. ‘Didier’s my cousin. When he screws up it always comes back on the family.’
‘I appreciate it, anyway.’ I lift the dripping bag of croissants from the fountain. Water streams from the sodden pastries as I drop them in a bin. ‘What’s his problem with Arnaud?’
The big man glances at my overalls. I get the impression he’s been trying hard not to. ‘You’re working on the house?’
‘I just came in for building supplies.’
I notice he’s avoided answering my question. For the first time it occurs to me that, if I’m right about him being Michel’s father, then I might have taken his job. But his next statement rules that out.
‘I manage the builders’ yard. I must have missed you.’ Again, his eyes go to the overalls I’m wearing. ‘How did you wind up at Arnaud’s?’
‘I was hitching and injured my foot in their woods. Mathilde patched me up.’
‘I thought you said you trod on a nail?’
It’s my turn to be evasive. I don’t want to lie to him, but I don’t want to stir up trouble either.
‘Why is everyone so worked up about Arnaud? What’s he done?’ I ask instead.
Jean-Claude’s face closes down. ‘Nothing that concerns you.’
‘That isn’t what Didier thought.’
‘Didier’s a prick. But if you want my advice, stay clear of town. Or better still, find somewhere else to work.’
‘Why? Come on, you can’t just leave it at that,’ I say, as he starts to go.
For a second or two I can see he’s torn. He rubs at his chin, turning over some point in his mind. Then he shakes his head, more to himself than to me.
‘Tell Mathilde that Jean-Claude was asking after his nephew.’
Leaving me by the fountain, he walks out of the square.
11
IN THE HEAT of the sun the drying mortar gives off a smell as evocative as freshly baked bread. I mix the sand and cement together in the metal tub, then carry a bucketful up to the top of the scaffold. I transfer a small pile onto a wooden board, about a foot square, that I found in the storeroom, then trowel it into the grooves I’ve hacked out between the stones.
Pointing the wall is slow work yet oddly restful. There’s something pleasurable about the soft hiss the trowel makes as I run the flat of its blade along the wet mortar to smooth it. Foot by foot, the wall is being remade. I replace the loose stones as I come to them, easing each heavy block into place and then mortaring around it until it’s indistinguishable from the rest. In the days since I visited the town, the upper level of the house has begun to look solid and whole rather than a ruin on the verge of collapse. Each evening when I stop work I get a small charge when I look at what I’ve accomplished. It’s a long time since I’ve done anything constructive.
It’s longer since I’ve done anything I’ve felt proud of.
I finish the last of the mortar and take the bucket down to the storeroom to refill. The afternoon sun is blinding overhead, whiting out the blue of the sky with its mindless heat. When it’s like this it’s impossible to imagine the same landscape in winter, made brown and brittle or hidden under a skim of frost. But I know it’ll come, all the same.
What little mortar is left in the galvanized tub has set. I scrape it out onto the pile outside the storeroom and decide I’ve earned a rest before I mix another batch. I sit in the shade and light up a cigarette. From down here it’s apparent just how much there is still to do. The knowledge is somehow comforting. I take another drag on the cigarette, contemplating it.
‘I’m not paying you to sit on your arse.’
Arnaud has appeared around the corner of the house. I take an unhurried drag of the cigarette.
‘You’ve not paid me for anything yet.’
‘What do you call three meals a day and a roof over your head? You’ll get the rest when you’ve earned it.’ He squints up at the house. The completed section seems even smaller than it did a moment ago. ‘Not done much, have you?’
‘I want to do it properly.’
‘It’s a wall, not the Venus de Milo.’
It’s on the tip of my tongue to say he’s welcome to get someone from town to do it instead, but I stop myself. Although we haven’t spoken about what happened in town with Didier and his friends, I’m sure Arnaud will have heard about it from Mathilde or Gretchen. Mathilde had asked about the bruise on my face from where Didier punched me. Predictably, she didn’t pass any comment, although she’d looked shaken when I gave her Jean-Claude’s message. Equally predictably, Gretchen was delighted to hear that I’d been in a fight, especially when she discovered who it was with.
‘What did Didier say? Did he mention me?’
‘Not really.’ She’d be less pleased if she knew what he’d been boasting. ‘Who is he, an old boyfriend?’
‘Oh no. Just someone I see sometimes.’ She’d shrugged, archly. ‘I haven’t seen him for a while, though. He’s probably jealous. That’s why he picked a fight with you.’
I doubted that, but I was starting to guess why the gate was unlocked when I first came to the farm. It couldn’t be easy for Gretchen to meet any local boys with Arnaud watching over her.
‘I got the impression it was more to do with your father. What’s he done to upset everyone?’ I asked.
‘Papa hasn’t done anything. It’s them,’ she�
��d said, and retreated into one of her sulks.
Since then there’s been no further mention of the incident; if not for the new bruise on my face it might never have happened. But I’ve come to understand that the farm has a way of absorbing events, closing over them like the stones I toss into the lake.
A few ripples to mark their passing, then they’re gone.
Arnaud regards the wall for a moment longer then jerks his head at me. ‘That can wait. Come on.’
‘Where?’
But he’s already walking away. I’m tempted to stay where I am, then I give in and go after him. He crosses the courtyard to the stable block and goes behind the tractor occupying one of the archways. By the time I’ve squeezed past it myself he’s already lifting something down from the back wall.
‘Does this thing ever move?’ I ask, rubbing my elbow where I’ve skinned it on the tractor’s bodywork.
His voice comes from the back of the stables. ‘Not since someone put sugar in its tank.’
‘Who?’
‘They didn’t leave a business card.’
I think about Didier, and wonder if this could be the reason for the traps. ‘Can’t you drain it?’
Arnaud reappears. He’s carrying something but it’s too dark to make out what it is. ‘Do you know anything about engines?’
‘Not really.’
‘Then don’t ask stupid questions.’
He comes nearer and I see he’s holding a chainsaw. It’s bulky and grimed with oil, its long blade lined with snaggled teeth. I step back, but he’s only going to a petrol canister. Unscrewing the fuel cap on the chainsaw, he begins to fill its tank.
‘What are you going to do with that?’ I ask, as the air sweetens with petrol.
‘We need to stock up with firewood.’
‘In summer?’
‘Green wood takes a long time to dry out.’
I glance through the stable’s archway at the house. ‘What about the wall?’
‘It’ll still be there when you get back.’ He adds oil from another container, then reseals the fuel cap and lifts the chainsaw in one hand. ‘Get the barrow.’
There’s a wheelbarrow beside a workbench. I struggle with it past the tractor, then set it down while Arnaud unceremoniously dumps the chainsaw into it. I’ve got a bad feeling about what’s coming next, and he doesn’t disappoint.
‘Bring that with you.’
With that he sets off out of the stable block, leaving me to follow. Laying my walking stick in the barrow, I take hold of the handles. The heavy chainsaw unbalances it when I take the weight, almost upending the whole thing. I hurriedly set the barrow down again and shift the saw into its centre. Then, hobbling awkwardly, I wheel it after Arnaud.
He walks ahead of me, across the courtyard and through the grapevines to the woods. I only catch up with him when he stops in a semi-cleared area near the statues, where smaller tree stumps stand among the bigger trunks like broken teeth. Kneading his lower back, he goes to a tree as I set the barrow down.
‘Here,’ he says, slapping it. ‘This one.’
It’s a young silver birch that’s found space to grow among the bulkier chestnuts. I look blankly at Arnaud as he takes his pipe out of his pocket and begins filling it. ‘What am I supposed to do?’
‘Cut it down, what do you think?’
‘You want me to do it?’
‘I didn’t bring you down here to watch. What’s wrong? Don’t tell me you’ve never used a chainsaw before.’
‘Yes. No, I mean.’
‘So now you get to learn. Just remember that it’ll cut through bone as easily as wood, so if you’re not careful it’ll take you apart instead of the tree.’ He gives a smirk. ‘Wouldn’t want any more accidents, would we?’
I clutch at the first excuse I can think of. ‘Aren’t we too close to the statues?’
‘They haven’t been hit yet, and they won’t be now if you do it right.’ He kicks the tree trunk about eighteen inches off the ground. ‘Cut a notch about here, then saw through to it from the other side. That’s all there is to it. Even you should be able to manage that.’
With that he goes and settles himself on a tree stump. The chainsaw sits in the wheelbarrow between us, waiting. My walking stick lies next to it, but if I was going to use my foot as an excuse I should have done it before I pushed the barrow down here. Arnaud gestures irritably.
‘Well, what are you waiting for? It won’t bite.’
I don’t want to go anywhere near the thing, but pride won’t allow me to refuse. I bend down and lift the chainsaw out. It’s as heavy as it looks, old and ugly and stained with oil. I hold it warily, half-expecting it to roar into life by itself. There don’t seem to be any guards or safety features, and what I assume is the starter cord is dangling from it. Conscious of Arnaud watching me, I brace myself and pull. Nothing happens.
‘Try turning it on. And you might want to put it down first,’ Arnaud says. He’s enjoying this.
There’s a toggle on the side of the machine. I flick it, then take hold of the cord again. This time when I pull it the engine chuckles and dies.
‘Are you sure it works?’ I ask.
‘It works.’
Gripping the cord tightly, I yank as hard as I can. The chainsaw shakes as it flares into life, then settles into a buzzing roar.
The noise is deafening. The saw shudders in my hands as I approach the tree. It’s a slender thing, the delicate leaves like translucent green coins against the silver bark. I lower the blade to where Arnaud indicated but can’t bring myself to cut.
‘Get on with it!’ Arnaud shouts against the din.
I set myself so I’m balanced without putting too much weight on my bad foot, take a deep breath and touch the teeth to the tree.
The saw’s buzzing rises to a scream. Fragments of raw white wood and bark spray out, and I instinctively draw back. The saw subsides to a growl. Imagining Arnaud’s smile, I put it to the tree again.
The saw judders as it tears through the wood. I brace myself against it, squinting against the splinters and chips it spits into my face. I cut a V-shaped notch as Arnaud instructed, then knock out the wedge of wood and begin to saw through the other side of the trunk. I hope I’m doing it right, but I’m not going to ask. I’m almost all the way through when the tree creaks and begins to lean.
I quickly step back. There’s a sound of cracking, then the silver birch topples and crashes down, bouncing once before settling to rest in a snapping of branches. As Arnaud predicted, it’s well clear of the statues. I’m impressed, despite myself.
He motions towards the saw. The engine noise drops as I let it idle.
‘There now,’ Arnaud smirks. ‘That wasn’t so bad, was it?’
I trim the branches from the tree and then set about carving the trunk into manageable segments. The clearing soon begins to look like a lumber yard, shards of white wood scattered around like confetti. While I’m attacking the trunk Arnaud gathers the lopped branches together, arranging them roughly by size so that all but the smallest can be used for kindling.
It’s hot work. Soon I’m stripped to my waist, the overalls rolled down and tied by their arms around my hips. Even Arnaud is forced to open his shirt, exposing a torso that’s hairless and pallid as milk against the nut brown of his face and neck. A waft of acrid sweat comes off him. What communication there is between us is reduced to gestures and signs. The whining of the chainsaw fills the woods as we go about dismembering the tree.
Finally, it’s done. When I switch the machine off, the sudden silence feels too heavy for the woods to support. Every noise seems amplified in the hush.
‘Let’s take a rest,’ Arnaud says.
I flop down with my back against the plinth of a statue. My skin is spattered with oil and woodchips. Arnaud grimaces in pain as he lowers himself onto the same stump he sat on earlier.
‘What’s wrong with your back?’ I ask.
‘I fell down the stairs.’ He gives a hum
ourless smile. ‘Same as you.’
I hope it hurt, I think, reaching for my cigarettes. He begins to refill his pipe, pressing down the tobacco with his thumb as I search for my lighter. With my overalls rolled to my waist, it’s hard to get into the pockets.
‘Light?’
Arnaud tosses me a box of matches. I catch them, surprised. ‘Thanks.’
I light up, luxuriating in the nicotine hit as my muscles slowly uncramp. I can hear the faint tamp of Arnaud’s mouth on the pipe stem, the faint whistle of air through its bowl. The first bird risks a tentative call. Gradually, the life of the woods returns to normal. I feel no urge to disturb it as I enjoy my cigarette. When it’s finished I stub it out and put my head back.
I hear Arnaud chuckle. ‘What?’ I ask.
‘I was just admiring your choice of backrest.’
I turn to find that I’m propped against the statue of Pan. The pagan god’s crotch is right behind my head.
I settle back again. ‘If he doesn’t mind, neither do I.’
Arnaud snorts, but seems amused. He takes the pipe from his mouth and raps the bowl smartly against the heel of his boot to empty it. He grinds the ash into the soil but doesn’t put the pipe away.
‘How much do you think they’re worth?’ he asks abruptly.
For a moment I think he means the trees, before I realize he’s talking about the statues.
‘No idea.’
‘No? You’re so smart, I thought you knew everything.’
‘Not when it comes to stolen statues.’
Arnaud takes out a short-bladed pocketknife. He begins scraping out the bowl of the pipe. ‘Who said they were stolen?’
‘You wouldn’t have hidden them down here if they weren’t.’ I’m not going to admit it was Gretchen. ‘Why haven’t you sold them?’
‘Why don’t you mind your own business?’ He grinds the knife into the pipe, but lowers it again after a moment, the task forgotten. ‘It isn’t that simple. You have to be careful who you approach.’
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