‘Get ready with the board!’ he grunts as the boar draws back. He gives another jab. ‘Now!’
I shove the board against the gap in the fence. A moment later I’m almost bowled over as the boar rams it. I brace myself as best I can but I’m still knocked back until Arnaud stands beside me. He puts his leg against the board next to mine while he thrusts over the fence with the crutch. Even then, it’s like trying to stop a bulldozer.
Georges appears again, carrying a long plank in one hand and a steaming bucket in the other. Without stopping, he drops the plank to the ground and goes to the pen several feet away. Leaning over the fence, he slaps his hand on it and calls to the boar, making clicking noises with his tongue. For a moment the animal is too enraged to notice, but then it charges this new annoyance. Before it reaches him Georges tips some of the bucket’s contents into the pen. The sweetly rank smell of offal comes from it. The boar slows, snuffling uncertainly at the offering. Then, still grunting bad-temperedly to itself, it buries its snout in it.
Arnaud breathes a sigh of relief and steps away from the board. I begin to do the same.
‘Keep it there!’
Walking stiffly, he goes over to Georges. His attention still on the boar, the old man pulls a hammer and several nails from his trouser pocket and gives them to him.
‘It needs a new fence,’ he tells Arnaud.
‘It’ll do for now.’
It has the sound of an old argument. Georges’s silence makes his disapproval plain.
‘Take him out of the way,’ Arnaud says.
Georges picks up the bucket and clicks his tongue again. The boar trots after him like a dog as he walks around the pen. When he reaches the opposite side he tips out more slops from the bucket. The boar eagerly begins to eat.
Arnaud picks up the plank Georges dropped, bending with obvious effort. ‘All right, you can move.’
My legs are shaking. I hop to one side and lean against the fence, hoping he won’t notice. The crutch is lying on the floor. Arnaud kicks it and grins.
‘Not much good now, is it?’
He’s right. The pad lies in shreds and the metal shaft is bent and buckled. I lean on it experimentally. Useless. I’m surprised how lost I feel, but I’m not about to let Arnaud see that.
‘What does he eat when he can’t get aluminium?’ I ask.
Arnaud chuckles. The incident seems to have put him in a good mood. ‘Pigs eat anything. And old Bayard will take a chew of whatever he can get hold of. Think yourself lucky it wasn’t his jaws you stepped in. You’d have one foot less if it was.’
I look uneasily over at the boar as Arnaud holds the plank in place and hammers a nail into it. But it’s still eating, placid enough as Georges scrubs it with a long-handled brush. It seems quiet now, although I notice that the old man has stayed on the other side of the fence. As I watch he pours something from a bottle onto its back before continuing the rub. Vinegar, I guess, remembering what Gretchen told me.
‘Does it always go berserk when you kill another pig?’ I ask.
Arnaud speaks around a mouthful of nails. ‘If the wind carries the blood to him.’
‘Why don’t you get one that’s less vicious?’
He gives me a sour look as he hits the nail the rest of the way home and goes to the other end of the plank.
‘He’s a good boar. He only has to cover most sows once or twice to get the job done.’ There’s pride in his voice. He takes another nail from his mouth and hammers it into place with three blows. ‘You don’t get rid of prime breeding stock because of a bit of temper.’
‘What about the pig you just slaughtered?’
‘She was barren. I tried Bayard with her enough times for it to take if it was going to. If they’re not going to litter they’re no use to me.’
‘No wonder he’s mad if you’re butchering his sows.’
Arnaud laughs. ‘Bayard doesn’t care about that. He’s just impatient for the offal.’
He stands up, wincing. Massaging his back, he thrusts the hammer and nails at me. ‘Here. Make yourself useful.’
Leaving me to finish off, he walks out of the clearing without a backward glance.
FOR A TIME after Chloe’s one-night disappearance, things settle almost back to normal. The fact of it hasn’t gone away, but it’s something both of us have avoided confronting. I’ve chosen to accept that she was telling the truth when she said nothing happened, and Chloe appears to have made an effort to put her temporary lapse behind her. If I don’t think about it I can almost pretend things between us haven’t changed.
But they have.
I’ve started meeting her at the bar again sometimes when she finishes work. Neither of us has acknowledged the implication behind this, which is that I no longer trust her. It’s just part of the unspoken deal we’ve reached.
One night when I arrive she’s at the bar with a man. She’s standing next to him while he sits on a tall stool, and at first I think it’s a customer. Then I take in the way they lean towards each other, the sombreness of Chloe’s expression as she listens to whatever he’s saying. I have to pause to steady myself, then I walk over.
