He’s a thin man in his fifties, receding hair brushed sideways to hide a balding crown. I know how John Mills felt in
The glass is cold and beaded with condensation. Slowly, I raise it to my lips and drink. The beer is icy and clean, with a faint flavour of hops. I make myself stop before I empty the glass completely, lower it, and breathe a sigh.
The barman is watching me. ‘Good?’
‘Very.’
‘Another?’
I’m tempted, but I don’t want to keep Mathilde waiting. From where I am I can see the van through the window, but she’s out of sight around the far side. ‘Better not.’
The barman wipes the counter. ‘Travelled far?’
‘No, I’m staying round here.’
‘Whereabouts?’
I’m already regretting saying anything. But he’s looking at me, waiting. ‘A farm, just up the road.’
‘The Dubreuil place?’
‘No.’ I tell myself it hardly matters: no one here knows me. ‘They’re called Arnaud.’
The barman pauses his wiping to stare at me. Then he calls to someone behind me at the tables. ‘Hey, Jean-Claude, this guy’s staying at Arnaud’s farm!’
Conversations stop. There’s a rustle as the old man reading the newspaper lowers it to watch. Bewildered, I look around. Everyone’s attention is on a burly character in dust-covered bib-and-brace overalls. He’s around forty, with a dark growth of stubble and black eyebrows that form a single line across the bridge of his nose. He puts down his beer glass and looks at me, taking in my red hair, bandaged foot and the crutch.
‘English?’ His voice is brusque but not hostile.
‘That’s right.’
‘So you’re working for Arnaud?’
I give what I hope is a nonchalant shrug. ‘Just passing through.’
‘Passing through his daughters, you mean,’ someone from another table comments. He’s younger than me, with oil-stained jeans and a nasty grin. There’s a general chuckling from the group he’s with, but the burly man doesn’t join in.
‘Watch your mouth, Didier.’
The laughter dies away. I finish my beer without tasting it. I glance outside to see if Mathilde’s finished filling up. I can’t see her.
‘What happened to your foot?’ the man asks.
‘I trod on a nail.’ It’s the first thing that comes to mind.
‘Must have been a big nail.’
‘It was.’
The barman puts my cigarettes down. My face is flaming as I cram them in my pockets and fumble for the money. He halfdrops my change so the coins roll on the counter. As I gather it up the door opens.
It’s Mathilde.
Her footsteps are the only sound as she comes over to the bar. Her face is composed, but there’s a flush to her throat and cheeks.
‘I’d like to pay for the fuel.’
The barman looks over at the burly individual in bib and braces, then rings in the sale. Only then does Mathilde acknowledge the other man’s presence, although the way she turns to face him tells me she’s known he’s there all along.
‘Jean-Claude.’
‘Mathilde.’
It’s agonizingly formal. Nothing else is said as the barman hands her the change. More politely than he did mine, I notice. He even inclines his head slightly as she takes it.
‘Thank you.’
I can feel them all watching us as we walk to the door. I let her go out first, so I’m not sure if she hears the quick pig-grunt from the one called Didier or the stifled laughter that follows it. I close the door without looking back and limp after her as quickly as I can. Neither of us speaks as we get into the van. I wait for her to say something, but she starts the engine and pulls out without a word.
‘Nice neighbours,’ I comment.
Mathilde stares through the insect-flecked windscreen. ‘They’re not used to strangers.’
I don’t think it was my being a stranger that was the problem. I want to ask why Arnaud’s name prompted such a reaction, and who Jean-Claude is. But Mathilde’s manner makes it clear she doesn’t want to talk about it.
As we drive back to the farm in silence, I wonder if I’ve just met Michel’s father.
It’s a relief to be inside the farm’s borders again. A fragile sense of security returns as Mathilde closes the gate behind us and re-fastens the padlock. She’s filled fuel cans as well as the van’s tank, but declines my offer to help unload them. ‘I’ll bring your dinner later,’ is all she says.
The beautiful evening is lost on me as I go back down to the barn. I know I can’t stay hidden on the farm for ever but I wish I’d never let Mathilde take me to the bar. I’ve drawn attention to myself needlessly, all for the sake of a beer and a few packs of cigarettes. And I don’t even know why. I’m not surprised that there’s no love lost between Arnaud and his neighbours – God knows, it’s hard to imagine him getting on with anybody. Even so, the atmosphere in the bar seemed about more than the usual small-town feud.
He must have really pissed someone off.
