Jean-Claude’s face closes down. ‘Nothing that concerns you.’
‘That isn’t what Didier thought.’
‘Didier’s a prick. But if you want my advice, stay clear of town. Or better still, find somewhere else to work.’
‘Why? Come on, you can’t just leave it at that,’ I say, as he starts to go.
For a second or two I can see he’s torn. He rubs at his chin, turning over some point in his mind. Then he shakes his head, more to himself than to me.
‘Tell Mathilde that Jean-Claude was asking after his nephew.’
Leaving me by the fountain, he walks out of the square.
IN THE HEAT of the sun the drying mortar gives off a smell as evocative as freshly baked bread. I mix the sand and cement together in the metal tub, then carry a bucketful up to the top of the scaffold. I transfer a small pile onto a wooden board, about a foot square, that I found in the storeroom, then trowel it into the grooves I’ve hacked out between the stones.
Pointing the wall is slow work yet oddly restful. There’s something pleasurable about the soft hiss the trowel makes as I run the flat of its blade along the wet mortar to smooth it. Foot by foot, the wall is being remade. I replace the loose stones as I come to them, easing each heavy block into place and then mortaring around it until it’s indistinguishable from the rest. In the days since I visited the town, the upper level of the house has begun to look solid and whole rather than a ruin on the verge of collapse. Each evening when I stop work I get a small charge when I look at what I’ve accomplished. It’s a long time since I’ve done anything constructive.
It’s longer since I’ve done anything I’ve felt proud of.
I finish the last of the mortar and take the bucket down to the storeroom to refill. The afternoon sun is blinding overhead, whiting out the blue of the sky with its mindless heat. When it’s like this it’s impossible to imagine the same landscape in winter, made brown and brittle or hidden under a skim of frost. But I know it’ll come, all the same.
What little mortar is left in the galvanized tub has set. I scrape it out onto the pile outside the storeroom and decide I’ve earned a rest before I mix another batch. I sit in the shade and light up a cigarette. From down here it’s apparent just how much there is still to do. The knowledge is somehow comforting. I take another drag on the cigarette, contemplating it.
‘I’m not paying you to sit on your arse.’
Arnaud has appeared around the corner of the house. I take an unhurried drag of the cigarette.
‘You’ve not paid me for anything yet.’
‘What do you call three meals a day and a roof over your head? You’ll get the rest when you’ve earned it.’ He squints up at the house. The completed section seems even smaller than it did a moment ago. ‘Not done much, have you?’
‘I want to do it properly.’
‘It’s a wall, not the Venus de Milo.’
It’s on the tip of my tongue to say he’s welcome to get someone from town to do it instead, but I stop myself. Although we haven’t spoken about what happened in town with Didier and his friends, I’m sure Arnaud will have heard about it from Mathilde or Gretchen. Mathilde had asked about the bruise on my face from where Didier punched me. Predictably, she didn’t pass any comment, although she’d looked shaken when I gave her Jean-Claude’s message. Equally predictably, Gretchen was delighted to hear that I’d been in a fight, especially when she discovered who it was with.
‘What did Didier say? Did he mention me?’
‘Not really.’ She’d be less pleased if she knew what he’d been boasting. ‘Who is he, an old boyfriend?’
‘Oh no. Just someone I see sometimes.’ She’d shrugged, archly. ‘I haven’t seen him for a while, though. He’s probably jealous. That’s why he picked a fight with you.’
I doubted that, but I was starting to guess why the gate was unlocked when I first came to the farm. It couldn’t be easy for Gretchen to meet any local boys with Arnaud watching over her.
‘I got the impression it was more to do with your father. What’s he done to upset everyone?’ I asked.
‘Papa hasn’t done anything. It’s them,’ she’d said, and retreated into one of her sulks.
Since then there’s been no further mention of the incident; if not for the new bruise on my face it might never have happened. But I’ve come to understand that the farm has a way of absorbing events, closing over them like the stones I toss into the lake.
A few ripples to mark their passing, then they’re gone.
Arnaud regards the wall for a moment longer then jerks his head at me. ‘That can wait. Come on.’
‘Where?’
But he’s already walking away. I’m tempted to stay where I am, then I give in and go after him. He crosses the courtyard to the stable block and goes behind the tractor occupying one of the archways. By the time I’ve squeezed past it myself he’s already lifting something down from the back wall.
‘Does this thing ever move?’ I ask, rubbing my elbow where I’ve skinned it on the tractor’s bodywork.
His voice comes from the back of the stables. ‘Not since someone put sugar in its tank.’
‘Who?’
