She hitches a shoulder. ‘There’s TV. Or I take Michel out for walks.’
‘How old are you?’
‘Eighteen.’
It’s older than I expect. Not because she doesn’t look it, but there’s an immaturity about her that suggests a younger girl. ‘What about friends?’
‘There are some local boys …’ A smile curves her mouth as she winds the wire from the earphones around a finger. It turns into a moue of disappointment. ‘But Papa doesn’t like me seeing anyone from town. He says they’re all idiots and I shouldn’t waste my time.’
Somehow that doesn’t surprise me. ‘Don’t you get bored?’
‘Sometimes. This is Papa’s farm, though. If you live here you have to obey his rules. Most of the time, anyway.’
It’s said with a sly glance towards me. I know I’m supposed to ask what she means but I don’t. ‘Is that why he was angry last night? Because you’d broken his rules?’
The pretty features sour. ‘That was Mathilde’s fault. She should have told him about you. She’d no right to keep it a secret.’
‘So you decided to tell him?’
‘Why shouldn’t I?’ She raises her chin defiantly, for a moment looking disconcertingly like her father. ‘Mathilde’s always bossing me around, telling me what I can and can’t do. But once you were awake it was only fair to Papa. It’s his farm, not hers.’
I’m not going to argue. I’ve enough problems of my own without getting embroiled in a family dispute. And I’m suddenly aware that Gretchen seems to be sitting nearer to me than she was before. Close enough to feel the heat radiating off her bare arms.
‘You’d better get back before you’re missed.’ I take the earphones from her and set them aside, in the process putting a little more space between us. She looks surprised but gets to her feet.
‘Can I listen again sometime?’
‘What about your father?’
She shrugs. ‘He won’t know.’
So much for obeying Papa’s rules. But I get the feeling that Gretchen only obeys the ones she wants to. There’s a self-conscious swing to her hips as she gets up and crosses to the trapdoor. I look away, pretending to be busy with the earphones. When her footsteps have receded down the steps I sigh and put them down again. I feel sorry for Gretchen, but the last thing I need is a bored eighteen-year-old stirring things up. Especially one with a psychotic father. I just want to get away from here, the sooner the better.
And then what?
The loft seems hotter and more airless than usual. I light a cigarette and lean back against the stone wall, blowing smoke at the ceiling. As I watch the blue haze disperse, I think about what Mathilde and Gretchen have said. In all the talk about the farm there’s one person no one’s mentioned.
The father of Mathilde’s baby.
4
I GO OUTSIDE for the first time next morning.
After Gretchen’s visit, I slept for most of the previous day, rousing at one point to find a tray of food beside the bed. I managed to keep awake long enough to eat the clear chicken broth and bread, and then fell asleep again, still intending to get up and practise some more on the crutch.
But when I wake in the morning the food and rest have done their work. I feel much better. The loft is brightly sunlit but not yet hot, and there’s a blessed freshness I know won’t last until midday. Yesterday’s supper tray has been replaced with one containing breakfast – eggs and butter again. I didn’t hear anybody, but I’m growing used to the idea of someone coming here while I’m asleep.
I eat ravenously, wiping the last of the yolk up with bread and wishing there was more. The bucket of water Gretchen brought is still by the mattress, so I wash the dried sweat off myself as best I can and then take out my razor to shave. By my reckoning there’s almost a week’s worth of stubble to hack off, but at the last second I change my mind. There’s no mirror in the loft, not even a broken one, but the bristles feel strange under my fingers. Not quite a beard but not like my own face either. It doesn’t feel like me any more.
I decide that’s no bad thing.
For a few minutes I feel deliciously clean, then I start to sweat again. The loft’s small window is open, but all that achieves is to stir the air slightly without cooling it. The heat is already building up, and with it my restlessness. I get up, intending to practise with the crutch, and then see the trapdoor standing open. I hobble over to it and look down into the barn.
Nobody said I had to stay up here.
Negotiating the steps is much easier this time. Tucking the crutch under one arm, I go down backwards, using them like a ladder. My foot gives a warning throb every now and then, but by leaning my knee on each step I can keep my weight off it.
I stop to rest on the small landing I fell onto when Mathilde’s father pushed me down the steps. The empty bottles I knocked over have been stood upright again, but even in daylight the barn is dank and gloomy. The stone walls are windowless, with the only light coming from the large open entrance. The air is cooler, and as I descend the last few steps I notice a scent of stale wine mixed in with the musty odour of stone and wood. At some time in the past the barn has been a small winery. There’s an empty metal vat and the cobbles are scarred from where other equipment has been removed. One section of them has been torn up and replaced with concrete, new-looking but already starting to crack.
There’s a tap jutting from one wall. Water spatters out onto the cobbles when I turn it and cup my hand underneath to take a few mouthfuls. It’s teeth-achingly cold but tastes wonderfully fresh. Splashing a little onto my face, I go to the tall wine rack that stands nearby. It’s half full of unlabelled bottles, but a good number of their corks are stained where the wine has seeped through. I sniff at one of them, wrinkling my nose at the sour taint, before going to the barn’s entrance.
Sunlight pours in from outside. I stand for a moment, taking in the scene through the open doors. The world outside is framed between them, a vivid picture set against the dark walls. Like a cinema screen.
Squinting against the brightness, I lean on my crutch and walk into it.
It’s like stepping into Technicolor. I breathe deeply, enjoying the scents of wild flowers and herbs. My legs are shaky, but after the smothering loft it’s good to feel sun on my face. Careful of my bandaged foot, I lower myself to the dusty ground to take in the view.
Directly in front of the barn is the vine field I saw from the loft’s window. It’s bordered by woods, and further off I can just make out the blue of the lake through the trees. Beyond that is the pale gold of surrounding fields, stretching as far as I can see. Whatever else the farm might be, it’s certainly peaceful. The air simmers with the drone of crickets and the occasional bleating of unseen goats, but nothing else disturbs the quiet. No cars, no machinery, no people.
I close my eyes and soak it up.
Gradually, another noise makes itself known. A rhythmic metallic creaking. I look up to see an old man walking towards me on a track through the grapevines. He’s a bandy-legged, wiry old thing, and the creaking is caused by the galvanized buckets he carries swinging slightly on their handles. His sparse hair is almost white, his face baked the colour of old oak. He barely seems taller than me even though I’m sitting down. But there’s a sinewy strength about him, and the forearms below his rolled shirtsleeves are thick with knotted muscle.
This must be the Georges Gretchen mentioned, I guess. I give him a nod. ‘Morning.’
There’s no acknowledgement. He continues unhurriedly towards the barn, walking right past me as though I’m not there. Unsettled, I turn my head to see what he’s doing as he goes inside. There’s the clatter of the buckets being set down, and a moment later I hear the tinny drumming of water as they’re filled at the tap. After a few minutes the sound of water cuts off and he re-emerges. He doesn’t so much as glance at me as he heads back down the track, forearms bulging as though they’re stuffed with walnuts under the weight of the buckets.
&n
bsp; ‘Nice to meet you, too,’ I say to his back.
I watch him trudge across the vine field and into the wood at the far side. He’s soon out of sight, and I wonder what he needs the buckets of water for down there. The farm doesn’t seem to have any livestock except for chickens and the goats I’ve heard bleating, and no visible crops except for the grapes. Judging from the sour-smelling corks and the spaces where wine-making equipment used to be in the barn, it hardly seems to be making a success as a vineyard, either.
I wonder how they survive.
I’ve rested enough, and my exposed skin is starting to sting and redden. Struggling to my feet, I settle the crutch under my arm and shuffle around the corner of the barn. There’s a roofless outhouse with an old hole-in-the-ground privy, and beyond that is the courtyard I remember from before. It’s even hotter here. Heat shimmers off the cobbles, and the scaffolded house where I asked for water looks bleached in the sun. A weathervane shaped like a cockerel leans precariously on its sway-backed roof, waiting for the air to move.
A few hens peck lazily at the dirt but there’s no one about. Thinking about water has made me thirsty again. There’s the tap in the barn, but after the old man’s indifference I feel a need to see another human face, if only briefly. I limp towards the house, the crutch slipping on the smooth cobbles. Off to one side, the broken clock on the stable block is still caught in its frozen sweep, single hand poised at twenty to nothing. The farm vehicles parked below it don’t seem to have moved since the last time I was here. A dusty van and trailer sit outside the stable block as though they’ve died there, while the radiator of a decrepit tractor pokes from one of the arched stalls like the muzzle of a sleeping dog. Another stall is occupied by an old blacksmith’s forge. Strips of iron are propped against it, but it isn’t until I see the crude triangular teeth on one that I realize what I’m looking at.
Feeling a memory-ache in my foot, I carry on to the house.
It’s even more run-down than I remember. The scaffold covers half of it, and unpainted shutters hang from the windows like the wings of dead moths. The ground at the foot of the wall is speckled with pieces of mortar that have fallen out, hardly any more cohesive than sand. A half-hearted attempt has been made to repair the crumbling stonework but it’s obviously been abandoned. And not recently: the scaffolding is rusted in places, and so is a chisel that lies on the ground under it. When I nudge it with my crutch it leaves a perfect imprint of itself on the cobbles.
The kitchen door stands open. Wiping the sweat from my eyes, I knock on it. ‘Hello?’
There’s no answer. As I turn away I notice another door further down, unpainted and warped. Labouring over on my crutch, I knock again, then tentatively push it open. It creaks back on unoiled hinges. Inside is dark, and even from the doorway I can feel the damp chill that spills out.
‘What are you doing?’
I spin round, performing an intricate dance with my crutch and good foot to keep my balance. Mathilde’s father has materialized from behind the stable block. There’s a canvas bag slung over his shoulder, from which the bloodied leg of a rabbit protrudes. More worrying is the rifle he carries, which is pointing right at me.
‘Are you deaf? I said what are you doing?’
In the daylight he’s older than I’d thought, nearer sixty than fifty, with brown melanomas of sun and age freckling his forehead. He isn’t particularly tall, short in the legs and long in the body, but he’s still a bull of a man.
I take a second to steady myself on the crutch, trying not to look at the rifle. ‘Nothing.’
He glances at the open door behind me. ‘Why are you prowling around?’
‘I wanted a drink of water.’
‘There’s a tap in the barn.’
‘I know, but I needed some fresh air.’
‘I thought you said you wanted water?’ Against the weathered skin his pale-grey eyes look like chips of dirty ice. They go to the crutch and harden even more. ‘Where’d you get that from?’
‘I found it in the loft.’
‘And who said you could use it?’
‘No one.’
I’m not sure why I’m protecting Mathilde but it doesn’t seem right to lay the blame on her. I’m acutely aware of the rifle as her father’s chin juts aggressively.
‘So you thought you’d just help yourself? What else were you planning on stealing?’
‘I wasn’t …’ All at once I’m too exhausted to argue. The sun seems to be pressing down on me, sapping what little strength I have left. ‘Look, I didn’t think anyone would mind. I’ll put it back.’
I start to go past him back to the barn, but he’s blocking my way. He makes no attempt to move, keeping the rifle pointed at me. Until now I’d thought he was just posturing, but looking into the hard eyes I feel a sudden doubt. I’m past caring though. I stare back at him, and as the moment drags on a rhythmic creaking gradually impinges on the silence. Looking across the courtyard, I see Georges unhurriedly walking towards us, a rusted bucket swinging from one hand.
If he’s surprised to find his employer holding someone at gunpoint he doesn’t show it. ‘I’ve repaired the fence as best I can, M’sieur Arnaud. It’ll do for now but it still needs replacing.’
I might as well be invisible for all the notice he takes of me. Arnaud – I’d forgotten the name on the mailbox at the gate until now – has flushed deeper than ever.
‘All right.’
It’s a dismissal, but the old man doesn’t take the hint. ‘Will you be coming down to have a look?’
Arnaud huffs in irritation. ‘Yes, in a while.’
Georges gives a satisfied nod and goes back across the courtyard, still without reacting to my presence. I’m forced to lean on the crutch again as Arnaud regards me, jaw working as though he’s chewing his words.
But before he can spit them out a dog bursts from behind the stables. It’s a young springer spaniel, all lolling tongue and flapping ears. When it sees us it comes bounding past Arnaud and prances around me. I try not to show how much I’m shaking as I reach down to tousle its head.
‘Here!’ Arnaud’s voice cracks out. The dog dithers, torn between obedience and enjoying the attention. ‘Get here, damn you!’
Obedience wins. The spaniel slinks over, cowering and wagging its tail frantically. It would tie a white flag to it if it could, but as Arnaud raises his hand to cuff it a spasm contorts his features. He stiffens, one hand going to his back as he straightens in pain.
‘Mathilde! Mathilde!’ he bellows.
She hurries around the side of the house, the baby in one arm and a basket of soil-covered vegetables in the other. A flash of what could be dismay passes across her face when she sees us, then it’s wiped clean of any emotion.
‘What’s he doing out here?’ Arnaud demands. ‘I told you to keep him out of my way!’
Mathilde tries to soothe the baby, who has started crying at his grandfather’s raised voice. ‘I’m sorry, I—’
‘It’s not her fault,’ I say.
Arnaud turns back to me, his face livid. ‘I wasn’t talking to you!’
‘I only came out for some fresh air,’ I say wearily. ‘I’ll go back to the loft, OK?’
Arnaud sniffs. He looks at the baby, who is still howling, then reaches out for him.
‘Give him to me.’
His hands look huge as he takes the child from Mathilde and holds him at eye level, gently rocking him from side to side. He still has the rifle tucked under his arm.
‘Eh? What’s this, Michel? You don’t cry. Be a big boy for your grandfather.’
His voice is gruff but fond. The baby hiccups and beams toothlessly at him. Without taking his eyes from his grandson, Arnaud turns his head to speak to me over his shoulder.
‘Get out of my sight.’
I spend the rest of the day sleeping. Or rather half-sleeping: in the airless loft I drift in and out between consciousness and dreaming. At one point I rouse to find a tray of food and a fres
h bucket of water has been left beside the bed. By Mathilde, I guess: even though I said I didn’t want a book there’s an old card-bound copy of Madame Bovary on the tray as well.
Maybe it’s by way of an apology for the run-in with her father.
The evening passes in a haze of heat and sweat. I lie in my boxers on top of the mattress, drugged by the spiced, cigar-box smell of the loft. For lack of anything else to do I make an attempt at Madame Bovary. But the archaic French is impenetrable, and I can’t concentrate. The words blur and the book keeps falling from my hands, until eventually I give up and put it aside. I think it’s too hot to sleep, but when I close my eyes I slide under so deeply it’s like drowning.
I wake with a cry, images of blood on a darkened street stark in my mind. For a few seconds I can’t remember where I am. The loft is in darkness, but a ghostly light spills through the open window. My hands are hot and sticky, and with the nightmare still vivid I expect to see them stained with blood. But it’s only sweat.
The moon’s light is bright enough for me to see my watch without turning on the lamp. It’s just after midnight. I reach shakily for my cigarettes. Only three left: I’ve started smoking them a half at a time. I light the burned end of one I started earlier and draw the smoke into my lungs. A weight of despair refuses to lift. When I finish the cigarette, making it last right down to the filter, there’s no question of going back to sleep.
The loft is humid and close, floodlit by the moon. A strip of light runs across the floor and hooks over the edge of the bed. I get out of bed and hop along its silver path to the window. The night has turned the landscape black and white. Beyond the shadows of the woods, the moon’s twin shines from the mirrored lake. There’s a metallic moistness to the air. I breathe it deeply, imagining submerging myself in the water, feeling its coolness lift even the weight of hair from my head.