The chisel clatters over the edge of the boards, bouncing between the wall and the scaffolding to ring onto the cobbles below. Gretchen opens the window, laughing.
‘Did I frighten you?’
‘No,’ I say, but my heart is still thudding. ‘Well, maybe a little.’
‘I brought you a coffee.’ She hands me a large cup. She sounds pleased with herself. ‘I thought it would save you climbing all the way down.’
‘Thanks.’
I’ll have to go down anyway for the chisel, but I don’t point that out. This is the first I’ve seen of Gretchen since she set fire to the photograph yesterday evening, although she doesn’t seem too bothered about that now. She stays in the bedroom, leaning through the open window while I sit on the ledge.
‘Mathilde says you’re going to give me English lessons.’ There’s an archness to the way she says it.
‘If you want them.’
‘It was her idea,’ she says, her face momentarily darkening. Then it clears. ‘You could teach me in the afternoons. Papa’ll be asleep, and Mathilde looks after Michel. We won’t be disturbed.’
She’s grinning, waiting to see how I’ll react. I sip my coffee with a nonchalance I don’t feel. It’s strong and black, threatening to burn my tongue. ‘Whatever.’
‘What’s that on your foot?’ Gretchen asks, noticing the improvised rubber shoe.
‘Mathilde made it.’
‘Mathilde?’ Her smile’s gone. ‘It looks stupid.’
I let that pass. A musty smell, not quite unpleasant, comes from the open window. Without the veil of dirty glass the peeling wallpaper and cracked plaster of the bedroom are more obvious. The iron bedstead with its lumpy mattress and bolster looks ready to collapse onto the bare floorboards.
‘Whose room was this?’ I ask.
‘Maman’s.’
I notice she doesn’t say it was Arnaud’s as well. I point to the photograph on the dresser. ‘Is that her with your father?’
She nods. ‘Their wedding.’
‘How old were you when she died?’
‘Just a baby. I can’t really remember her.’ Gretchen sounds bored. ‘I used to play in her wheelchair after she’d died. But then I fell out and hurt myself so Papa smashed it up.’
Just as well she never had a pony, I think. But, like a lot of things where Gretchen’s concerned, I keep that to myself. She’s gone quiet, and I swear I can feel what she’s going to say next.
‘Why don’t you come inside?’
‘No, thanks.’
She’s moved to make room for me to climb in. ‘It’ll be OK, nobody comes up to this room any more.’
The coffee’s still too hot but I take a drink anyway. ‘I’ll stay out here.’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing.’
‘So why won’t you come in? Don’t you want to?’
‘I’m working.’
‘No, you aren’t. You’re drinking coffee.’
Her smile is both teasing and confident. There’s something about Gretchen that puts me in mind of a cat: sinuous and purring to be stroked, but capable of raking you with its claws if the mood takes it.
I’ve never been comfortable with cats.
‘I’m still working,’ I say. My head is thumping, the hangover back full force.
She goes to sit on the bed, one leg swinging. ‘Are you gay?’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure? Saying no to a pretty girl’s invitation, I think perhaps you are gay.’
‘OK, I’m gay.’
She seems to have forgotten all about the scene with the photograph, but I’m not going to mention it if she isn’t. Her smile is mischievous as she lies back on the bed, crooking one knee and propping herself up on her elbows.
‘I don’t believe you. I think you’re just shy and need to relax.’ Gretchen leans further back on the bed. She raises an eyebrow, still smiling. ‘Well?’
‘
Gretchen’s smile vanishes as Arnaud’s shout comes from the courtyard. Hoping she has the sense to stay quiet, I look down over the scaffold. Arnaud is glaring up at me from the cobbles. The spaniel is by his feet, ears cocked as it looks up as well.
‘What are you doing?’
I don’t know how much he can see or hear from where he’s standing. I resist the impulse to look over my shoulder.
‘Taking a break.’
‘You’ve only just started.’ He fixes me with an unfriendly stare and motions with his head. ‘Get down here.’
‘Why?’
‘I’ve got another job for you.’
I don’t know whether to be relieved or not. ‘What sort of job?’
‘Slaughtering a pig. Unless you’re too squeamish?’
I hope he’s joking. But his eyes are bright and watchful, daring me to refuse. And I don’t want to stand around up here any longer than I have to: I don’t trust Gretchen not to do something stupid.
‘I’ll catch you up.’
I turn away before he can say anything else. In the instant before I look in the bedroom I have an image of Gretchen still lying on the bed, so vivid that I can almost see her tan skin against the faded blue stripes of the mattress.
The bed is empty. So is the room. On the floorboards is a faint tracery where her feet have disturbed the dust, running to and from the door.
I close the window as best I can and make my way over to the ladder.
