That was easier than I expected. I shrug. ‘I’ll have to make a list of what I need. But that won’t take long.’
She doesn’t look up from her flowerbed. ‘Come up to the house when you’re done.’
I realize I’ve been hoping she’d find an excuse not to go. But there’s nothing more to say. Leaving her to her weeding, I limp back round to the courtyard, leaning on the old walking stick Mathilde gave me to replace the crutch eaten by the boar. Its dark wood has teeth marks where one of Lulu’s predecessors chewed it, but it’s thick and substantial, with a tarnished silver collar on the handle.
I look quite the dandy.
I try to disregard my nerves as I block open the storeroom door so I can see what I’ll need to buy. Cement, for a start, but there seems to be plenty of sand. Another bucket and trowel, though, to replace the rusting ones. And a spade, I think, prodding the one frozen in the pile of mortar. It vibrates, twanging like a giant tuning fork. I search around until I find the grubby notepad and pencil stub I discarded from the overall’s pocket. I leaf through the pages for a clean one to make a shopping list. It’s full of scribbled measurements for old building projects, but one page catches my attention. It’s a crude drawing of a naked woman, and talentless as the artist was there’s one telling detail.
The woman’s hair is tucked behind an ear.
My first thought is that it’s Mathilde, that this is further confirmation of who Michel’s father is. Then I look again and I’m not so sure. There’s a dot on one cheek that could be a dimple, and I’ve occasionally seen Gretchen tuck her hair back in an unconscious echo of her sister. But the drawing is so primitive it’s impossible to tell who it’s supposed to be. If anybody: for all I know it could be a random doodle.
I guiltily snap the notebook shut when a noise comes from outside. It’s only Georges, though. The old man is trudging across the bottom of the courtyard, a clanking bucket in each hand. I smile ruefully at my reaction.
When I’ve finished I go back to the house. The door is open and Mathilde is busy dissecting a skinned rabbit. The bowl of freshly picked beans is beside her as she cuts and twists, deftly separating a leg joint.
‘I’m ready when you are,’ I say.
There’s a snort from the other side of the room, which is hidden behind the open door. ‘About time. It’s taken you long enough.’
I didn’t realize Arnaud was there. I push the door further back so I can see him. He’s sitting at the scarred dining table with a large cup of coffee, Michel on his knee gnawing at a crust of bread.
‘It’s a big house,’ I say, stung despite myself.
‘Not that big. Makes me wonder what you do up on that scaffold all day.’
‘Oh, you know. Sunbathe, read. Watch TV.’
‘It wouldn’t surprise me. You’re certainly not doing much work.’
There’s no real heat in the exchange. The bickering between us has become almost routine. It doesn’t mean we like each other.
Arnaud feeds a coffee-soaked crust to Michel. ‘He shouldn’t have that,’ Mathilde tells him.
Her father chuckles as his grandson crams the soggy mulch into his mouth. ‘He likes it. He knows what’s good for him.’
‘He’s too young.’
Arnaud is already dipping another piece. ‘It’s only coffee.’
‘I don’t want—’
The flat of Arnaud’s hand cracks on the table.
‘Are you
Michel jumps at the shout, his face puckering. Arnaud gives Mathilde a final glare.
‘Now look what you’ve done!’ He bounces the baby up and down on his knee, his voice and expression softening as soon as he turns to his grandson again. ‘Shh, there’s a man. Here, there’s plenty more.’
Michel grasps the soggy piece of bread he offers and smears it around his mouth. Mathilde silently finishes disassembling the rabbit. The stiffline of her back and the red flush on her neck are her only protest.
A door at the back of the kitchen opens and Gretchen enters. She smiles when she sees me, which is enough to spoil Arnaud’s good humour.
‘What are you grinning at?’ he demands as she saunters across the room.
‘Nothing.’
‘Doesn’t look like nothing to me.’
‘I can smile if I want to, can’t I?’
‘It depends what at.’
His eyes go from his younger daughter to me, sharp and suspicious. There’s a world of difference between the posturing grumpiness of a moment ago and the hostility I’m confronted with now. The atmosphere in the kitchen is suddenly charged; even Michel falls silent as he looks up at his grandfather.
Then Mathilde comes and stands between us. It’s done so casually it could be accidental.
‘You wait by the van while I get the keys,’ she says.
I’m not sorry to go. I close the door behind me but I’ve gone only a few steps when there’s the muffled sound of breaking crockery, followed by the siren of Michel’s crying. I carry on across the courtyard to the van.
Just another day
Mathilde’s face gives nothing of her feelings away when she emerges from the house. She comes over and holds out a set of keys.
