‘The sort who wouldn’t be too interested in where the statues came from. There must be plenty of rich English bastards who’d pay for this sort of thing.’ When he looks at me there’s a shrewd glint in his eye. ‘There’d be something in it for you.’
‘Sorry, but I don’t know anyone.’
His scowl deepens. ‘I should have known you wouldn’t be any use.’
I can’t help myself. ‘This “business associate”. Did he suggest making your own wine as well?’
Arnaud’s look is answer enough. Snapping the knife shut, he rams it in his pocket as he pushes himself awkwardly to his feet.
‘You can start taking the wood back.’
‘By myself? How?’ I look at the pile of cut timber. It was hard enough bringing the wheelbarrow down here with just the chainsaw in it.
He gives me a grim smile. ‘Smart-arse like you, you’ll think of something.’
It’s early evening before I finish taking the sawn-up tree to the house. I make trip after trip, limping up and down the track until I’m aching all over. I keep telling myself that each trip is the last, that Arnaud can do the rest himself. But I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of sneering that I couldn’t manage. And leaving the silver birch to litter the woods seems too wasteful, no better than vandalism after I’ve cut it down.
So I carry on until all the logs are stacked under a lean-to at the back of the house. Only when I’ve put the wheelbarrow away do I remember I’ve left my walking stick in the woods. I almost don’t bother going back: I’ve coped without it all afternoon, and the wounds on my foot are healing nicely. But just thinking about it makes them hurt again.
Besides, I’ve grown used to having something to lean on.
After I’ve stripped off my overalls I try to wash myself at the tap in the barn. Water runs between the cobbles, pooling in the rough concrete depression before draining into the deepening crack in its surface. As I try to scrub myself clean I make a note to bring some mortar down here to patch it. The cold water takes away my breath, but not even the block of caustic homemade soap can cut through the coating of oil and tree-bark.
I persevere until my skin is raw and wrinkled, then throw down the soap in disgust. Turning off the tap, I put my overalls back on and collect clean clothes from the loft. Then I go to the house and knock on the kitchen door.
Mathilde opens it.
‘I could really use a bath,’ I tell her wearily.
I’m ready for an argument, and if Arnaud was there I’d probably get one. But there’s no protest from inside the room. Mathilde just takes in my oil-spattered state and steps back.
‘Come in.’
The kitchen is full of cooking smells. Pans are bubbling on the range, but the kitchen is empty except for her.
‘Where is everyone?’
‘My father’s with Georges and Gretchen’s taken Michel out. He’s teething again. The bathroom’s this way.’
She leads me through the door at the back of the room and into a hallway. It’s gloomy, unlit at this time of day by either natural or electric light. The stairs are steep and narrow, tarnished brass rods gripping the worn carpet. I follow her up them, taking hold of the painted wooden banister for support and keeping my eyes on the stairs instead of Mathilde’s legs.
This is the first time I’ve been beyond the kitchen. It feels strange. The house is threadbare but clean. The stairs end at a long corridor that runs off in both directions. There are doors on either side, all closed. I guess one of those on my left must open onto the unused bedroom that I look into from the scaffold. But I’m not sure which it is, and there’s no way of knowing what’s behind any of them.
Mathilde goes down the corridor and pushes open a door at the far end. ‘Here.’
The bathroom is so big that the ancient bath and washbasin look lost in it. The floor is bare boards except for a small rug beside the bath. But the room is bright and airy, even though the single window faces away from the sun this late in the afternoon.
‘You have to run the hot water first, then add the cold. The pipes don’t work properly if you try to run both at once. Be careful. It gets very hot.’ She tucks her hair behind her ear, not quite looking at me. ‘You’ll need a clean towel.’
‘That’s OK.’
‘It’s no problem.’
She goes out, quietly closing the door behind her. I could be imagining it, but there seems to be a subtle change in her since I gave her Jean-Claude’s message. A slight reserve towards me. It’s hardly surprising: God knows, I wouldn’t like strangers knowing about my private life. But I regret it, even so.
The bath is a deep iron tub, the chipped white enamel discoloured by twin ferrous streaks where the taps have dripped. The hot one creaks as I turn it, producing nothing for a moment except a groaning shudder that seems to stem from the heart of the house. Then a bolt of water spatters out, followed by a thick gush. I put in the plug and find that the water is as scalding as Mathilde warned.
