‘OK, then,’ I say to myself, and take my first swing.
There’s something Zen-like about hacking out the old mortar. The work is hard and repetitive, but hypnotic. Each steel-on-steel strike produces a clear musical note. With the right rhythm the chisel seems to sing, each new note sounding before the last has died.
It’s actually relaxing.
I have to keep stopping to rest, but I soon find a pace I can maintain. I get around the problem of my injured foot by stacking two or three of the big rectangular stones left on the platform and using them as a rest for my knee. Sometimes for a change I sit on them and work that way. It doesn’t keep the bandage from getting dirty, but there’s no helping that.
I don’t intend to work for long on my first day, but I lose track of time. It’s only when I break off to blink away a fragment of mortar from my eye that I see how low the sun is. The afternoon has passed without my noticing.
Now I’ve stopped various discomforts begin to announce themselves. My arms and shoulders are aching and sore, and I’ve an impressive collection of blisters from gripping the hammer. There’s also a livid bruise forming on the back of my hand, evidence of the times when I’ve missed the chisel.
I don’t mind: it feels like honest pain. But I must have caught my watch as well, because there’s a crack running across its face. The sight of it cuts through my mood like a slap. It’s still working but I take it off and slip it into my pocket anyway. I don’t want to damage it any more, and the watch is an uncomfortable reminder of things I’d rather forget.
Besides, I don’t need to know the time while I’m here: the farm operates to its own rhythm. Taking off the cap from my sweat-damp hair, I look at what I’ve achieved. The newly hacked-out mortar is paler than the older areas, but also dispiritingly small seen against the expanse of wall that remains. Still, I’ve made a start, and that feels surprisingly good.
Leaving the hammer and chisel on the platform, I climb slowly down the ladder. The sun-heated rungs sting my blisters, and each step is an effort. I’d kill for a beer, I think, limping into the storeroom to collect my clothes. A bottle – no, a glass. Tall and amber and misted with condensation. I can almost taste it.
Tormenting myself with the thought, I go back into the courtyard. I don’t notice Mathilde until I hear a crash of breaking crockery. I look round and see her in the doorway with Michel on one arm. At her feet is a shattered bowl of eggs, the bright yellow yolks smearing the cobbles.
She’s staring at me, white-faced.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to surprise you,’ I say.
‘No, I… I didn’t realize you were there.’
Her eyes stray to the red overalls I’m wearing, and suddenly I think I understand. ‘There’s no shade up there so I put these on. I hope that’s OK?’
‘Of course,’ she says, too quickly.
I feel bad for giving her a shock but I wasn’t to know wearing the overalls would upset her. Her reaction makes me think I’m right about Michel’s father, but she’s already recovered her poise. The baby contentedly gums a piece of bread as she moves him to a more comfortable position.
‘How’s the work gone?’
‘Good. Well, OK.’ I shrug, trying to see where I’ve hacked out. It’s hardly visible from down here. ‘I’ve made a start, anyway.’
Mathilde holds out her hand for my bundled-up clothes. ‘Would you like me to wash those?’
‘Thanks.’ I don’t argue. The freezing water in the barn won’t get rid of the sanglochon smell, and I don’t relish washing in it myself. I’m tempted to ask if I can take a shower or a bath, but I can imagine what Arnaud would say to that. Well, if I can’t have a hot bath or a cold beer, there’s one thing I’d like at least.
‘You said earlier there was somewhere I could buy cigarettes. How far away is it?’
‘A couple of kilometres. Too far for you to walk.’
‘I don’t mind. I can take my time.’
It isn’t as if I’ve anything else to do. Now I’ve stopped working the endorphin high is starting to fade and my nerves are already beginning to jangle. It’ll be worse knowing I can’t calm them with a cigarette.
Mathilde glances back at the house, as though debating something. She pushes a strand of hair behind her ear.
‘Give me half an hour.’
YELLOW DUST BILLOWS up around the van as it bounces over the track’s potholed surface. Mathilde is driving with the windows down, trying to dissipate some of the heat that’s built up inside during the day. The vinyl of the seats is torn, white wadding showing through in places. Mine has been mended, if it can be called that, with black electrical tape. Despite the open windows, the van smells of diesel, dog and stale pipe tobacco.
When I went back to the house after getting washed and changed Mathilde and Gretchen were arguing in the doorway. I stopped at the corner of the courtyard, not wanting to interrupt.
‘But it doesn’t need doing!’ Gretchen was insisting.
‘Yes, it does.’
‘Georges cleaned it yesterday! They’re only pigs, they don’t mind what they eat!’
‘Please, just do as you’re told.’
