‘The big key is for the padlock on the gate. You’ll need to lock it behind you.’
‘You’re not coming?’
‘No.’ Her usual inscrutability seems strained. ‘You can drive?’
‘Yes, but…’ I wasn’t expecting this. I wasn’t looking forward to going, but thought at least Mathilde would be coming with me. ‘I don’t know where to go.’
‘The builders’ yard isn’t far from the garage. Keep following the road until you reach the town square. It’s on your right just after that.’
She’s still holding out the keys. I take them reluctantly, still searching for objections. ‘What about my foot?’
‘The pedals are well spaced. You should be able to manage.’ She opens the wallet-like purse and pulls out a few notes. ‘That should be enough for cement and whatever else you need. I’d give you an advance on your wages, but my father…’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
I’m too taken aback by this new development to care. Mathilde seems uncomfortable as well. As she turns away, she pushes her hair behind her ear. I’m reminded briefly of the drawing, but I’ve more pressing worries than Mathilde’s private life.
Even though it’s still early the inside of the van is stale and hot. I prop my walking stick on the passenger side, then slide behind the wheel and try my bandaged foot on the pedal. Provided I don’t snag the homemade shoe, it should be OK. Fastening the seatbelt prompts an unwelcome flare of memory, so I distract myself by checking the controls. I try the pedals again, then waste some more time adjusting the seat before I accept I’m only putting things off.
I turn the key.
The engine catches on the third attempt, rattling and roaring as I pump the accelerator to keep it from dying. When it’s settled to a steady grumble I lower the window and slowly drive out of the courtyard. The gears are stubborn. I bump along the track’s uneven surface in second. When I reach the gate I go through the time-wasting routine of opening it and driving through, then getting out of the van again to padlock it behind me. I climb back into the van and sit with the engine running, looking at the open road. Get on with it, I tell myself.
There are a few other cars about but not many. The old Renault is reluctant to come out of second. The gear lever is a fiddly thing that juts out from the dashboard, and the engine roars as I force it into third then up to fourth. There’s no fifth gear, but the old van cruises along happily enough once it’s got used to the idea. I point it straight down the grey strip of tarmac, heading into the heat-haze that retreats as fast as I head towards it. Already I can’t understand what I was so anxious about. I relax into the seat, beginning to enjoy myself.
My sunglasses give the parched countryside on either side a blue tint, deepening the sky to an improbable sapphire. I lean my arm out of the window, enjoying the breeze as the wheat fields whip past, until I realize how fast I’m going. Reluctantly, I slow down: the last thing I want is to be stopped for speeding.
Some of my tension returns as I near the garage and bar where Mathilde and I stopped. But there’s no one outside, and it’s gone in a flash. Given the evident tensions between her father and his neighbours, I can’t blame her for not wanting to come into town with me. Although calling it a town is flattering it, I see as I drive into it. It’s not much more than a village. There are a few houses and shops that open directly onto the narrow pavement, and then I’m at the main square. It’s small but pleasant enough, with plenty of trees for shade and a fountain in front of a boules court, on which two old men are already tossing steel balls at a tiny jack.
The open-fronted builders’ yard is down a side street but still visible from the road. I park by the piles of sand, bricks and timber outside a corrugated, hangar-like building and go inside. Pallets of cement and plaster are stacked head-high against the walls. I buy what I need and then awkwardly load the heavy bags of cement into the back of the van. It’s tricky, since I can’t use my stick, and no one working there seems in any hurry to help. But I don’t mind. My earlier anxiety has gone. In its wake comes a glow of confidence, born from relief as much as anything. As I drive back to the square I’m actually sorry to be returning to the farm so soon. When I see a parking space up ahead it occurs to me that I don’t have to.
On impulse I pull in and stop.
The town has woken up during the time I’ve been buying supplies. I sit outside one of the cafés set around the square, enjoying the sense of freedom. The metal table rocks slightly on the uneven pavement when I hang my walking stick on its edge. After a few moments the waiter comes out, pad in hand.
‘Coffee and a croissant.’
