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.
‘I’m taking her to the veterinarian.’
‘No, you’re not. A bullet’s the best thing for her.’
Mathilde doesn’t answer. She struggles to her feet, hugging Lulu to her chest. The dog screams as its leg flops against her.
‘Didn’t you hear what I said?’ Arnaud demands.
‘I heard.’
She takes a step forward. He’s blocking her way.
‘You’re not going anywhere! Put her down and—’
‘No!’
The refusal stops him dead. It’s the first time I’ve seen her stand up to him. Arnaud glares at her, but Mathilde stares back, white-faced to his mottled anger.
‘I’m not going to let you kill her.’
She doesn’t raise her voice this time, but there’s no doubting the purpose in it. For a moment I think Arnaud is going to hit her. Then he moves aside.
‘Please yourself. Just don’t expect me to pay for the vet.’
Mathilde goes past him, straining under the dog’s dead weight.
‘Let me,’ I say.
‘I can manage.’
But she doesn’t resist. Lulu whimpers as she’s passed over. I feel Arnaud watching me. I have a sudden intuition that he might think that I’m helping Mathilde because of what he said earlier, that I’m fulfilling my part of a tacit bargain. The thought angers me as I turn and find Gretchen standing behind us.
Her face is smeared with tears. She looks anywhere but at Lulu, although her eyes seem to be constantly drawn towards the dog’s leg.
Arnaud pushes past me and seizes her arm.
‘Did you open the gate?’ Her head is down on her chest. He grabs her shoulders and shakes her. ‘Answer me! Did you open the gate?’
‘No!’
‘Then how did the boar get out!’
‘I don’t know! Leave me alone.’
She tries to pull free but he twists her around to face the dog. ‘Look! Look what you’ve done!’
‘I didn’t do anything! Get off!’
She wrenches free and runs into the wood. Arnaud stares after her, then turns on us.
‘Go, if you’re going!’ he snaps, and stamps off towards the pens.
I do my best not to jolt the dog as I carry her back to the courtyard, letting Mathilde bring my walking stick. My foot holds up well, considering. When we get to the van she spreads out an old blanket on the passenger seat. The spaniel is shivering but still licks my hand as I set her down. Her hind leg looks as though it’s been minced. Splinters of white bone pierce the bloodied flesh, and for once I think Arnaud might be right. We’re only prolonging her suffering. But she isn’t my dog, and it isn’t my place to say.
Mathilde shuts the door and goes around to the driver’s side.
‘Do you want me to take her?’ I ask, knowing how she feels about going into town.
‘It’s all right.’
‘Shall I come with you?’
‘No, thank you. We’ll be fine.’
She’s like a stranger. I watch her drive up the track, easing over the bumps. The van reaches a bend and is lost in the trees, leaving behind a slowly settling trail of dust. When the sound of its engine fades it’s just as though nothing has happened.
London
JULES COMES BACK to the bar the following week. It’s early and the bar is quiet. Kai, Sergei’s boyfriend, has brought me a coffee and is chatting to Dee about the best way t
o cook a rice timbale. I’m half-listening, keeping an eye on the entrance. I’m about to take a drink of coffee when the door opens and Lenny walks in.
I put the coffee cup down. He’s alone, but if he’s here then there’s a good chance Jules will be on his way as well. He looks over at me, indifferent but letting me see he knows who I am. He goes to where Dee is serving.
‘Bottle of Stella,’ he says to her, paying me no further attention. As he reaches out to take his change I see the gold watch on his wrist. It’s a Rolex or a copy, chunky and jewelled. He notices me looking at it.
‘What?’
‘Just admiring your watch.’
I’m thinking about how he’d asked the time when Chloe and I encountered him in the dark street. I don’t expect him to remember, or make the association if he does. But I’ve underestimated him. I feel a chill as the stubbled face stares at me.
‘I don’t give a fuck about you,’ he says. ‘If you’ve any sense you’ll keep it that way.’
With a last look to make sure I’ve got the message, he takes his drink over to a table.
‘What was that all about?’ Dee asks, coming over.
‘Private joke.’
There’s nothing funny about this, though. You don’t go out of your way to cross people like Lenny. I don’t even know why I did it.
After that I’m waiting, knowing it’s only a matter of time. The coffee I’ve drunk sours in my stomach. I think I’m ready, but my pulse still leaps when Jules comes through the door. When I see the girl with him my first emotion is relief, because it isn’t Chloe. Then they walk into the light and I feel a physical shock. It is her; it just isn’t the Chloe I knew. Her hair is styled and more obviously blonde, and she’s wearing a short red dress that shows off her legs in the high heels. When I knew her she hardly wore any make-up at all; now she’s almost unrecognizable behind the eyeliner and lipstick.
She walks slightly behind Jules as he goes over to greet Lenny. She hasn’t seen me, and I’m certain from her distant expression that Jules hasn’t told her I work here. I don’t realize I’m staring until Sergei comes out of the kitchen with two unopened bottles of Absolut.
‘Here, Sean, put these in the freezer,’ he says, thrusting them at me. He glances at my face. ‘And for God’s sake, smile! You look like you’re going to kill somebody.’
I take the vodka from him and go to the freezer beneath the bar. But I don’t open it, because now Jules and Chloe are coming over.
Jules is looking straight at me, but Chloe hasn’t noticed who he’s steering her towards. As they get near he puts his arm around her shoulders. She looks up at him in surprise, and the grateful flicker that crosses her face breaks my heart.
Then she sees me and stops dead. Still smiling, Jules tightens his arm around her and forces her forward.
‘Surprise. Look who’s here,’ he says.
I put the bottles down. Chloe is staring down at the counter. Her throat works, but no sound comes out. She’s lost weight; she was always slim but now she’s rake thin. One look is enough to tell me she’s using again.
‘Aren’t you going to say hello?’ Jules says, tightening his arm around her shoulders. ‘Come on, there’s a good girl.’
Obediently, she raises her head.
‘Hello, Sean.’ Her voice is so low it’s almost a whisper. There’s an unfocused look to her eyes that makes me think she’s on more than just coke these days.
‘Hi.’
My face feels turned to stone. Jules is watching, missing nothing. ‘Quite the reunion, isn’t it? Tell you what, I’ve got some business to sort out, so why don’t you two catch up? I expect you’ve got lots to talk about.’
‘Jules, no, I—’
‘Oh, and we’ll have two vodkas on the rocks. Bring mine over, will you?’
He gives me a wink, stroking Chloe’s shoulder in a demonstration of possession before swaggering over to join Lenny. The silence is awful as Chloe and I face each other across the bar.
‘So … how are things?’ I make myself ask.
‘Great. Really good.’ She’s nodding as if trying to convince herself. ‘You?’
‘Top of the world.’ It’s hard to look at her. I wish the bar were busy so at least I’d have other people to serve, but it’s still perversely quiet. ‘How’s the painting going?’
It’s a cruel question. There’s a quick flare of satisfaction when I see the hurt on her face, and then I hate myself for it.
‘Oh, I’m not really … I’m sort of helping Jules with his business now. He’s a bit short-staffed, so … Anyway, he says he might want some of my work for his gym when things … you know …’
I’m not sure I do, but I nod. ‘That’s good.’
She’s still smiling as her eyes start to brim. ‘It’s all right, I’m fine. Really,’ she says. ‘I just wish …’
I feel something give in me as she starts to cry. Pride wars with the instinct to reach out to her. Not for long, but long enough.
‘Chloe! Get over here.’
The shout comes from Jules. She dashes the tears away with the heel of her hand, and the moment when I might have said or done something is gone.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says, averting her face as she hurries away.
I ask Dee to take their drinks over and go into the kitchen. When I come out again the place is starting to fill up. For a while I’m blessedly busy. The next time I look across, Chloe and the others are gone and another group of people are sitting at their table.
16
REPLACING THE STONES is a slow business. The section of house I’ve started working on is in even worse condition than the rest, having faced directly into the teeth of the weather blowing up from the lake. I’ve had to remove a lot of stones completely, cleaning them of the old mortar before putting them back. They’re big and heavy, squeezing out the wet mortar like coffee-coloured icing when I push them back into the gaps. Sometimes their weight makes them settle too far, so that they don’t line up with the stones on either side. Whenever that happens I take them out and start again. I doubt anyone on the ground would notice, or care very much if they did.
I would, though.
I trowel mortar onto the top and sides of another stone and lift it up. The hole is at shoulder height, so I have to bench-press the stone into place. Bracing it on my chest, I ease it in, praying it will sit level this time, thankful when it does. I scrape off the surplus mortar and flex my sore shoulder muscles. I’ve made good progress this morning, which would normally be enough to make me feel pleased. Not today.
My bucket is empty. I take it back down the ladder and go into the dank storeroom. A pile of empty plastic sacks confronts me: I’m down to my last bag of sand.
I’m going to have to go into town again.
I swear and throw the bucket down. I’ve known this was coming for days. It’s taken a lot of mortar to replace the stones, and while there’s plenty of cement I’ve almost used up all the sand that was in the storeroom. If I’d known there wasn’t enough I could have fetched more when I went for the cement, but I’d assumed my predecessor knew what he was doing. My mistake.
In addition to his other failings, Louis wasn’t much of a builder either.
I find Mathilde in the vegetable garden at the back of the house. She’s kneeling at the tiny bed of flowers, uprooting the weeds that have sprung up since last time. She looks up as I approach, and again I feel I’ve somehow disturbed her in a private moment.
‘I need more sand.’
She doesn’t question it this time. Her expression is resigned, as if there’s no longer anyone who can do or say anything to surprise her. She only nods and silently gets to her feet.
I go with her and wait in the kitchen while she fetches her wallet. Gretchen is sitting at the table with Michel. She doesn’t acknowledge me. Since the boar escaped she’s withdrawn into herself. It isn’t so much that she ignores me as that she no longer seems to register I’m even there.
If I
’m honest, it’s a relief.
‘Will that be enough?’ Mathilde asks, handing me a few notes. They’re all small denomination.
‘I think so.’
‘The keys are in the van.’
She returns to her garden as I go to the Renault. It’s greenhouse hot inside, but I don’t bother waiting for it to cool. After I’ve gone through the usual rigmarole of unlocking and locking the gate, I stand for a moment, looking out at the road. A car shoots past, coming from the direction of the town and heading off towards its own destination. As I watch it go something uncurls at the back of my mind, so indistinct I don’t recognize it for what it is at first.
Restlessness.
The feeling has been growing ever since the gendarmes came. I don’t worry any more about them coming back: if they were going to they would have by now. But the disruption that arrived with them has never really left.
Without enthusiasm, I climb back into the van. The drive into town seems to take no time at all. The roadside bar hardly seems to flash by before I’m at the square. The boules players are already out, although I can’t tell if they’re the same ones. The fountain is still spraying gaily in the sunshine. My hands are clammy on the steering wheel as I pull into the builders’ yard. The engine dies with a shudder. Taking a deep breath, I climb out.
There’s no sign of Jean-Claude.
I allow myself to relax, though only a little. I reach into the van for my walking stick, then pause. My foot is all but healed. The stitches are almost ready to come out and I’ve started leaving off the bandage when I’m not working. I still use the rubber boot that Mathilde made, but that’s only because my own chafes the wounds. The stick is starting to feel more like a habit than a necessity, and I know the time is coming when I’ll have to stop relying on it.
But not yet. Picking it up, I lean on it and limp into the hangar-like building.
I order and pay for the sand and am directed back out into the yard. There are wide wooden bays filled with pebbles, grit and sand. No one’s about, but there’s a shovel sticking out of the sand and a pile of empty plastic sacks, so I begin filling them myself.
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