‘This and that,’ he mocks. ‘You don’t give much away, do you? Got something to hide?’
There’s a moment when I feel weightless. I’m aware of my colouring betraying me as blood rushes to my cheeks, but I make myself stare back.
‘No. Why should I?’
Arnaud’s mouth works, either ruminating or chewing some titbit he’s found between his teeth. ‘I expect people to respect my privacy,’ he says at last. ‘You’ll have to stay down at the barn. You can eat your meals down there. I don’t want to see you any more than necessary. I’ll pay you fifty euros a week, if I think you’ve earned it. Take it or leave it.’
‘OK.’
It’s a pittance but I don’t care about the money. Still, the glint in Arnaud’s eyes makes me regret rolling over so easily. Showing him any weakness is a mistake.
He looks me up and down, weighing me up. ‘This is Mathilde’s idea, not mine. I don’t like it, but there’s work needs doing and since she seems to think we should hire some English deadbeat I’ll let her. I’ll be watching you, though. Cross me so much as once and you’ll regret it. Is that clear?’
It is. He stares at me for a few moments more, letting his words sink in, then reaches for the rifle.
‘Go on, get out.’ He begins wiping it with an oily cloth. I limp to the door, angry and humiliated. ‘One more thing.’
Arnaud’s eyes are glacial as he stares at me over the rifle.
‘Keep away from my daughters.’
IT’S TOO HOT to even consider going back up the scaffold after my audience with Arnaud. Besides, it’s lunch time, so when Mathilde comes back I wait outside the kitchen until the food’s ready and then take my plate down to the shade of the barn. I need to cool off, in every sense. I’m still smarting, already questioning whether I wouldn’t be better taking my chances out on the road. But my own reluctance at the prospect is all the answer I need. The only thing waiting for me beyond the farm’s borders is uncertainty. I need time to work out what I’m going to do, and if that means abiding by Arnaud’s rules then I can live with that.
I’ve put up with worse.
Lunch today is bread and tomatoes, with a chunk of dark and heavily spiced sausage I guess is homemade. There’s also what on examination I find are pickled chestnuts, and to finish a small yellow apricot. I don’t think I’ve eaten anything since I’ve been here that hasn’t been grown or produced on the farm.
I eat it all, leaving only the apricot’s stone and stalk, then sit back and pine for a cigarette. The spicy food has made me thirsty, so I go to the tap inside the barn. The faintly sweet air around the disused wine vats smells better than the wine itself. Crossing the rectangular patch of concrete in the cobbles, I catch my crutch on a deep crack running across its surface. Not enough cement, I think, prodding at the crumbling edges with my crutch. If this was the same builder who worked on the house, he made an equally bad job of it.
I run the tap water and drink from my cupped hands. It’s cold and clean, and I splash some on my face and neck as well. Wiping it from my eyes, I come out of the barn and almost bump into Gretchen.
‘Sorry,’ I say.
She smiles. She’s wearing a short T-shirt and cut-down denim shorts I’m surprised Arnaud lets her get away with. She’s carrying a bucket, this one plastic rather than metal like the ones I saw Georges using. The springer spaniel accompanying her fusses around me, tail wagging. I scratch behind its ears.
‘I’m taking some scraps down for the sanglochons. But I think I overfilled the bucket.’ She holds it in both hands, making hard work of it. ‘You could help me, if you’re not doing anything.’
I try to think of an excuse. Her father’s warning is still fresh in my mind, and I’m not sure how I’ll carry the bucket that far with my crutch anyway. Gretchen’s smile widens, emphasizing her dimples.
‘Please? It’s really heavy.’
At her insistence, we carry it between us to start with, each of us with one hand on the bucket handle. After we’ve struggled for a few yards, Gretchen giggling all the time, I lose patience and carry it by myself. It’s nowhere near as heavy as she made it look, but it’s too late to change my mind now. Hopefully even Arnaud can’t object to my helping feed his pigs.
‘Are you growing a beard?’ Gretchen asks as we follow the track through the vines.
I self-consciously feel the bristles on my chin. ‘Not really. I just haven’t shaved.’
Gretchen tilts her head, smiling as she considers. ‘Can I touch it?’
Before I can say anything she reaches to stroke my cheek. The burnt-caramel smell of sun-heated skin comes from her bare arm. Her dimples are deeper than ever as she lowers her hand.
‘It suits you. I like it.’
The dog bounds ahead of us as we walk through the chestnut wood. Gretchen takes a dirt path that forks off from the main track. It leads through the trees to a clearing, in which a large pen has been built from wire and rough planks. Standing off by itself is an unlovely cinderblock hut, but Gretchen passes that without comment as she heads for the pen.
