I put the fork back down on my plate. My attempts to teach Gretchen English haven’t exactly been a success, although I admit I’m no more enthusiastic than she is. Conversation with Arnaud’s youngest daughter is hard work at the best of times, and if I push her too much she subsides into her default state of sulk. Still, I promised Mathilde I’d try.
I hadn’t planned on teaching her today, though. I’d gone down to the barn to wash before going to collect my lunch from the house. All morning I’ve been thinking about what happened in the bathroom yesterday, whether I misread the tension between Mathilde and me. Or even imagined it. I’ve wondered if I’d detect any difference in her today, but so far I haven’t had much chance to find out. My breakfast was once again left on the loft steps this morning, and there was no sign of Mathilde in the kitchen when I took the dishes back. I hoped I’d see her when I went for my lunch, if nothing else.
But as I was coming out of the barn, Gretchen arrived with a plate of food. Mathilde had asked her to bring it, she told me with a coy smile, and I knew then that any hope I’d had of a peaceful lunch was gone. If nothing else, trying to teach her English would cover the awkward silences. Not that they ever seem to bother Gretchen.
She lies on her stomach, idly kicking her legs as she plucks another flower from between the overgrown cobbles. She’s wearing a yellow vest top and the faded cut-downs, legs long and tanned, the pink flip-flops hanging from her soiled feet. I draw a circle in the dirt with my finger, then add two lines in its centre pointing to twelve and nine.
‘What time is that?’
‘Boring o’clock.’
‘You’re not even trying.’
‘Why should I? It’s dull.’
‘At least make an effort.’ I sound like the sort of teacher I always used to hate, but Gretchen brings out the worst in me.
She gives me a petulant look. ‘What for? I’m never going to go to England.’
‘You might.’
‘Why, are you going to take me?’
I think – hope – she’s joking. Even so, just talking about going back makes something tighten in my chest. ‘I don’t think your father would like that.’
The mention of Arnaud sobers her, as it usually does. ‘Good. I don’t want to go anyway.’
‘Maybe not, but it doesn’t hurt to learn. You don’t plan on staying on the farm all your life, do you?’
‘Why shouldn’t I?’
There’s a warning in her voice. ‘No reason. But don’t you want to move out or get married eventually?’
‘How do you know what I want to do? And if I do get married it won’t be to anyone English, so what’s the point of learning the stupid language? There’s plenty of boys round here who’d want to marry me.’
And look how well that’s going, I think. But it’s time to back off. ‘OK. I just thought you were bored.’
‘I am.’ She props herself up on an elbow, giving me a look. ‘I can think of better things to do, though.’
I busy myself with the food and pretend not to hear. Today there’s a thick hunk of bread and a bowl of cassoulet, with pale beans and chunks of sausage. It’s almost black, with nebulae of white fat suspended in it. Gretchen pulls a face as I fork up a piece.
‘I don’t know how you can eat that stuff.’
‘What’s wrong with it?’
‘Nothing’s
‘Blood sausage?’
She grins at my expression. ‘Didn’t you know?’
No, I didn’t. I look at the dark paste and globules of fat. An image comes to mind of the stunned pig hanging by its hind legs while Georges puts the knife to its throat. I remember the sound of the blood splashing into the metal bucket. And behind that are other images, even less welcome.
I put the sausage down and set my plate aside.
‘Have I put you off?’ Gretchen asks.
‘I wasn’t hungry.’
I take a drink of water to rinse away the taste. There’s a distracting tickle on my arm. An ant is questing inquisitively on my skin. Brushing it off, I see there are dozens milling around in the grass, ferrying breadcrumbs into a hole between the cobbles.
Gretchen cranes her head to see what’s caught my attention. ‘What is it?’
‘Just ants.’
She moves closer to examine them. Picking up a handful of soil, she begins to trickle it in their path. The ants dash around in circles, antennae waving, then form a new line that bypasses the obstacle.
‘Don’t do that.’
‘Why? They’re only ants.’
She follows them with the soil. I turn away, annoyed by the casual cruelty, which is probably why I say what I do.
‘Who was your father’s business partner?’
Gretchen carries on sifting soil through her fist, letting it fall onto the ants. ‘Papa didn’t have a business partner.’
‘He says he did. The one who helped him with the statues.’
‘Louis worked for us. He wasn’t Papa’s partner.’
It’s the first time I’ve heard his name. ‘OK. But he’s Michel’s father, isn’t he?’
‘What’s it got to do with you?’
‘Nothing. Forget I asked.’
Gretchen picks up another handful of soil and drops it onto the mouth of the ants’ hole. ‘It was Mathilde’s fault.’
‘What was?’
