Stone Bruises

12

‘I’m bored.’

Gretchen throws down what’s left of the small yellow flower she’s been steadily denuding of petals. I try not to sigh.

‘Come on, try to remember.’ I hold up my fork. ‘What’s the English word for this?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Yes, you do. We’ve done it before.’

She doesn’t even look up. ‘Knife.’

I put the fork back down on my plate. My attempts to teach Gretchen English haven’t exactly been a success, although I admit I’m no more enthusiastic than she is. Conversation with Arnaud’s youngest daughter is hard work at the best of times, and if I push her too much she subsides into her default state of sulk. Still, I promised Mathilde I’d try.

I hadn’t planned on teaching her today, though. I’d gone down to the barn to wash before going to collect my lunch from the house. All morning I’ve been thinking about what happened in the bathroom yesterday, whether I misread the tension between Mathilde and me. Or even imagined it. I’ve wondered if I’d detect any difference in her today, but so far I haven’t had much chance to find out. My breakfast was once again left on the loft steps this morning, and there was no sign of Mathilde in the kitchen when I took the dishes back. I hoped I’d see her when I went for my lunch, if nothing else.

But as I was coming out of the barn, Gretchen arrived with a plate of food. Mathilde had asked her to bring it, she told me with a coy smile, and I knew then that any hope I’d had of a peaceful lunch was gone. If nothing else, trying to teach her English would cover the awkward silences. Not that they ever seem to bother Gretchen.

She lies on her stomach, idly kicking her legs as she plucks another flower from between the overgrown cobbles. She’s wearing a yellow vest top and the faded cut-downs, legs long and tanned, the pink flip-flops hanging from her soiled feet. I draw a circle in the dirt with my finger, then add two lines in its centre pointing to twelve and nine.

‘What time is that?’

‘Boring o’clock.’

‘You’re not even trying.’

‘Why should I? It’s dull.’

‘At least make an effort.’ I sound like the sort of teacher I always used to hate, but Gretchen brings out the worst in me.

She gives me a petulant look. ‘What for? I’m never going to go to England.’

‘You might.’

‘Why, are you going to take me?’

I think — hope — she’s joking. Even so, just talking about going back makes something tighten in my chest. ‘I don’t think your father would like that.’

The mention of Arnaud sobers her, as it usually does. ‘Good. I don’t want to go anyway.’

‘Maybe not, but it doesn’t hurt to learn. You don’t plan on staying on the farm all your life, do you?’

‘Why shouldn’t I?’

There’s a warning in her voice. ‘No reason. But don’t you want to move out or get married eventually?’

‘How do you know what I want to do? And if I do get married it won’t be to anyone English, so what’s the point of learning the stupid language? There’s plenty of boys round here who’d want to marry me.’

And look how well that’s going, I think. But it’s time to back off. ‘OK. I just thought you were bored.’

‘I am.’ She props herself up on an elbow, giving me a look. ‘I can think of better things to do, though.’

I busy myself with the food and pretend not to hear. Today there’s a thick hunk of bread and a bowl of cassoulet, with pale beans and chunks of sausage. It’s almost black, with nebulae of white fat suspended in it. Gretchen pulls a face as I fork up a piece.

‘I don’t know how you can eat that stuff.’

‘What’s wrong with it?’

‘Nothing’s wrong with it. I just don’t like blood sausage.’

‘Blood sausage?’

She grins at my expression. ‘Didn’t you know?’

No, I didn’t. I look at the dark paste and globules of fat. An image comes to mind of the stunned pig hanging by its hind legs while Georges puts the knife to its throat. I remember the sound of the blood splashing into the metal bucket. And behind that are other images, even less welcome.

I put the sausage down and set my plate aside.

‘Have I put you off?’ Gretchen asks.

‘I wasn’t hungry.’

I take a drink of water to rinse away the taste. There’s a distracting tickle on my arm. An ant is questing inquisitively on my skin. Brushing it off, I see there are dozens milling around in the grass, ferrying breadcrumbs into a hole between the cobbles.

Gretchen cranes her head to see what’s caught my attention. ‘What is it?’

‘Just ants.’

She moves closer to examine them. Picking up a handful of soil, she begins to trickle it in their path. The ants dash around in circles, antennae waving, then form a new line that bypasses the obstacle.

‘Don’t do that.’

‘Why? They’re only ants.’

She follows them with the soil. I turn away, annoyed by the casual cruelty, which is probably why I say what I do.

‘Who was your father’s business partner?’

Gretchen carries on sifting soil through her fist, letting it fall onto the ants. ‘Papa didn’t have a business partner.’

‘He says he did. The one who helped him with the statues.’

‘Louis worked for us. He wasn’t Papa’s partner.’

It’s the first time I’ve heard his name. ‘OK. But he’s Michel’s father, isn’t he?’

‘What’s it got to do with you?’

‘Nothing. Forget I asked.’

Gretchen picks up another handful of soil and drops it onto the mouth of the ants’ hole. ‘It was Mathilde’s fault.’

‘What was?’

‘Everything. She got pregnant and caused a row, and that’s why Louis left. He’d still be here if not for her.’

‘I thought you said he’d let you all down?’

‘He did, but it wasn’t all his fault.’ She shrugs. Her eyes have a far-away look, as though something inside her has switched off. ‘He was good-looking. And fun. He was always teasing Georges, asking him if he was married to one of the sows, things like that.’

‘Sounds hilarious.’

Gretchen takes the comment at face value. ‘He was. There was this one time he took a piglet and dressed it up in his old handkerchief, like a nappy. Georges was furious when he found out, because Louis dropped it and broke its leg. He was going to tell Papa until Mathilde made him promise to say it was an accident. It would only have made Papa angry. And the sanglochons aren’t Georges’s anyway, so he’d no right to make a fuss.’

‘What happened to the piglet?’

‘Georges had to slaughter it. But it was a sucker, so we got a good price.’

The more I hear about this Louis, the less I like him. I can’t imagine Mathilde with someone like that, but as soon as I think it I realize how ridiculous I’m being. It isn’t as if I really know anything about her.

‘So where’s Louis now?’

‘I told you, Mathilde made him go away.’

‘But is he still living in town?’

Gretchen’s face has hardened; she looks every inch her father’s daughter. She throws the last of the dirt down onto the ants. ‘Why are you so interested?’

‘I only wondered if Mathilde—’

‘Stop going on about Mathilde! Why are you always asking about her?’

‘I’m not—’

‘Yes you are! Mathilde, Mathilde, Mathilde! I hate her! She spoils everything! She’s jealous of me because she’s old and droopy and she knows men want me more than her!’

I raise my hands, trying to placate her. ‘OK, calm down.’

But Gretchen is far from calm. The skin around her nose has turned white. ‘You want to screw her, don’t you? Or are you fucking her already?’

This is getting out of hand. I climb to my feet.

‘Where are you going?’

‘To work on the house.’

‘To see Mathilde, you mean?’ I don’t bother to respond. I reach down to pick up the plate but she dashes it from my hands. ‘Don’t ignore me! I said don’t ignore me!’

She snatches up the fork and lashes out. I jerk back but the tines snag my arm, tearing the flesh.

‘Jesus …!’

I grab the fork from her and fling it away. A dark trickle of blood runs down my arm as I clamp my hand to the wound. I stare at Gretchen, more shocked than anything. She’s blinking as though she’s just woken up.

‘I’m sorry. I–I didn’t mean to …’

‘Just go.’ My voice is unsteady.

‘I said I’m sorry.’

I don’t trust myself to speak. After a moment Gretchen contritely gathers up the plate and cutlery, her hair hanging like a curtain over her face. Without another word she takes them around to the courtyard and disappears.

I stay where I am, waiting for my heart to slow down. The fork has left four parallel cuts in my bicep. Bloody, but not deep. I press my hand over them again. At my feet, the ants are swarming over the spilled food in an orgy of activity. The ones Gretchen killed have already been forgotten: all that counts is survival.

Leaving them to their feast, I go into the barn to clean my arm.

The sunset is spectacular. The dragonflies, bees and wasps that patrol the lake during the day have been replaced by midges and mosquitoes. Sitting with my back against the chestnut tree, I blow cigarette smoke into the air. I read somewhere that insects don’t like it, but these don’t seem to know that. I’m bitten already, but I won’t really feel them until the morning. Tomorrow can take care of itself.

I’ve brought Mathilde’s book with me. The peace is absolute, but I’ve no stomach for Madame Bovary tonight. The novel lies beside me, unopened, as I watch the last rays of sun turn the lake’s surface into a dark mirror.

My arm is sore where the fork tore it, but the cuts are only superficial. I washed them under the tap, letting the frigid water sluice away the blood. It ran in pink trails across the cobbles, draining into the widening crack in the patch of concrete. Another of my predecessor’s legacies. I told Mathilde I’d caught it on the scaffold and asked for cotton wool and sticking plaster. I thought it better to dress it myself than explain how I’d come by equidistant cuts. Your sister stabbed me with a fork because she hasn’t forgiven you for splitting up with Michel’s father. Who she seems to have liked a little too much.

No, that’s one conversation I’d rather avoid. Still, if Gretchen had a crush on Louis it would explain some of the tension between her and Mathilde. And maybe it was more than a crush, I think, remembering the crude drawing I found in his notebook. The naked woman could have been either of them, and Louis doesn’t sound the sort of man who’d have qualms about sleeping with both sisters.

Now who’s jealous?

The chestnut tree is full of spiny globes. They aren’t fully grown, but one of them has dropped prematurely and lies in the grass nearby. I pick it up, feeling the prickle of its spines in my palm. The sun has dipped below the trees now, and a dusky twilight has descended on the lake. I get to my feet and stand at the edge of the bluff. The chestnut makes a tiny splash when I throw it into the water. It floats like a miniature mine, bobbing above the darker shadow that marks the submerged rock.

Restless, I go down from the bluff and walk along the lakeside. I haven’t been this far before, never felt any desire to go any further. Now, though, I feel compelled to plot the extent of the farm’s boundaries.

The track ends at the bluff, and a little further along the woods come right to the water’s edge. I pick my way along it to the far bank of the lake, then carry on until I reach the end of the farm’s land. Strands of rusty barbed wire weave along the edge of the tree line, nailed into the trunks. There isn’t much to see on the other side except wheat fields. There are no paths or tracks down here, and if there’s any reason for the barbed wire I can’t see it. The wheat is hardly likely to trespass, but that isn’t the point.

Arnaud’s marking his territory.

If I needed more proof it comes only a few minutes later. I start to follow the fence, and only at the last second notice a hard-edged shape nestled in a tuft of grass. It’s one of Arnaud’s traps, jaws spread wide and waiting. I didn’t think he’d have bothered to put them all the way down here, but he obviously isn’t taking any chances. Neither am I: I look around until I find a stick and thrust it into the trap’s jaws. They snap shut hard enough to splinter the wood.

The thought of more of them hidden away snuffs any desire to explore further. In the fading light I use my walking stick to probe ahead of me as I head back to the lake. I come out on the opposite side to the bluff, and stand for a few moments to take it in from this new perspective. The banks of the lake are overgrown with reeds and bulrushes, but from here I can see a patch of shingle tucked behind a grassy hummock. I make my way over, my feet crunching as they sink into the thin covering of pebbles. The water shelves quickly, shading to dark green as it deepens. I crouch down and dip my hand in. It’s cold, and a mist of sediment stirs when my fingers touch the bottom.

This would be a good place to swim from, I think. Most of the lakeside is muddy, but I could wade out from here. I swirl my fingers through the water, silvering the broken surface. The air hasn’t lost its daytime heat, and the thought of stripping off and plunging into the cool lake is beguiling. Only my bandaged foot stops me, but I’ve waited this long. The stitches are almost ready to come out, and when they do I can celebrate with a long-overdue swim.

If I’m still here.

I stand up and flick the water from my hand, sending tiny ripples shivering across the lake. An insipid moon has come out as I return to the bluff for Mathilde’s book, then head back through the woods. The sanglochons are quiet tonight, the statues silent as ever. It’s only my mood that makes them seem watchful and sinister, but I’m still glad when I emerge from the trees.

The stars are scattered like powder across the darkening sky, a stark reminder of our insignificance. When I reach the barn I linger outside, not yet ready to go up to the loft’s airless heat. I’m debating helping myself to another bottle of Arnaud’s wine when the sound of breaking glass comes from the house.

It’s followed by another. There’s yelling and hysterical laughter as I hurry to the courtyard. As I reach it the kitchen door is flung open and Arnaud bursts out. In the spill of light I can see he’s holding the rifle. I stop dead, certain that if he sees any movement in the darkness he’ll shoot.

‘No, don’t!’

Mathilde rushes after him. He ignores her, striding towards the track that leads to the road. Rowdy cheers follow another shattering of glass that I now realize is a window breaking. Mathilde tries to hold Arnaud back but he shakes her off, and then they’re both out of sight. I hurry across the courtyard as Gretchen appears in the doorway. She’s holding Michel, her face white and anxious.

‘Stay there,’ I tell her.

Without waiting to see what she does, I set off after Mathilde and Arnaud, crossing the cobbles in an awkward half-run, halfhop. The shouting is coming from the woods behind the house. There are several voices, whooping and jeering, and now I can make out what they’re saying.

‘Here, piggy! Send your daughters out, Arnaud!’

‘There’s one of your little piggies here, come and say hello!’

There are grunts and squeals, a high-pitched burst of raucous laughter. Ahead of me I can make out the shadowy figures of Arnaud and Mathilde against the lighter background of the track. Mathilde has hold of Arnaud’s arm, struggling with him.

‘Don’t! Leave them, they’ll go!’

‘Get in the house!’

He pushes her away and in the same movement brings the rifle up and fires. His features are lit up as it cracks out, and the jeers are abruptly cut off. There’s cursing and yells of alarm, followed by the crashing of undergrowth. Arnaud aims the long barrel into the blackness of the woods as he shoots again and again, working the bolt so quickly that the snap of one discharge merges with the next. Only when the commotion has died away does he stop, lowering the rifle with what could be reluctance.

In the distance a car engine roars into life and quickly recedes. Quiet settles like a blanket over the night.

Arnaud doesn’t move. Mathilde stands with her back to him, hands over her ears. They’re two featureless black shapes, no more human in the darkness than the trees themselves. She remains immobile as Arnaud finally turns back towards the house. His footsteps crunch on the track. He passes me as if I’m not there. I wait, watching Mathilde. Eventually she drops her arms. I hear a soft snuffle. One hand comes up to her face, makes a wiping motion. Slowly, she begins to make her way down the track.

‘Are you OK?’ I ask.

My voice makes her start. I can pick out her features now, pale and scared against the dark framing of her hair. She gives a nod. Head down, she goes past, so close she almost brushes against me. She vanishes around the corner of the house, and a moment later I hear a faint click as the kitchen door is closed.

I stay on the track, looking up towards the now silent woods. My heart is racing. Gradually, the whisper of crickets resumes.

Accompanied by their music, I go back to the barn.

The skylight is fogged with condensation. Rain sweeps against it with a noise like a drum roll. Our smudged reflections hang above us as we lie on the bed, misted doppelgangers trapped in the glass.

Chloe has gone distant again. I know her moods well enough not to push, to leave her to herself until she returns of her own accord. She stares up through the skylight, blond hair catching the glow from the seashell-lamp she bought from a flea market. Her eyes are blue and unblinking. I feel, as I always do, that I could pass my hand over them without any reaction from her. I want to ask what she’s thinking, but I don’t. I’m frightened she might tell me.

The air is cold and damp on my bare chest. At the other side of the room a blank canvas stands untouched on Chloe’s easel. It’s been blank for weeks now. The reek of oil and turpentine, for so long the smell I’ve associated with the small flat, has faded until it’s barely noticeable.

I feel her stir beside me.

‘Do you ever think about dying?’ she asks.

I don’t know what to say. The atmosphere between us has been strung taut since I found the coke. Chloe swears it was an isolated mistake she won’t repeat, and I’m trying to believe her. Neither of us talks about Jules. Each day is a delicate balancing act that could fall and shatter if we don’t maintain it.

Yet I’ve noticed she’s become more withdrawn lately. There’s nothing specific, but a few days ago I searched the flat again while she was out. When I didn’t find anything I told myself I’d been imagining things. But it could just mean she’s found a better hiding place.

‘What sort of question’s that?’

‘Does it scare you?’

‘Jesus, Chloe …’

‘It doesn’t scare me. It used to, but it doesn’t any more.’

The muscles in the back of my neck are knotted and clenched. I push myself up so I can look at her. ‘Where’s this going?’

She’s staring up through the skylight, her eyes bright points in the shadowed paleness of her face. Just when I think she isn’t going to answer, she does.

‘I’m pregnant.’

At first I don’t know what I feel. Of all the things I’ve expected, all the scenarios I’ve imagined, this wasn’t one of them. Then everything’s swept away by euphoria and relief. So that’s what’s been wrong.

‘God, Chloe, that’s great!’ I say, starting to put my arms around her.

But she lies stiff and unresponsive. She’s still staring through the skylight, and now I see the brightness from her eyes spill and run down her cheeks. I pull back from her as a coldness begins to spread through me.

‘What?’ I ask, though I already know.

Chloe’s voice is level, unaffected by the tears on her face.

‘It isn’t yours.’