THE COURTYARD IS in shadow as I limp across it towards the house. A lone hen refuses to get out of my way, so I usher it aside with my walking stick. The bird clucks and flaps before settling down to resume picking at some invisible speck. My freshly washed hair and beard are still damp, and I’ve even dressed for the occasion, putting on a fresh T-shirt and my cleanest pair of jeans. I feel uncomfortable, the familiar setting made strange by the occasion.
I keep reminding myself it’s only dinner.
Lulu has been banished to the courtyard. She lingers hopefully outside the kitchen, fussing over me briefly when I walk up but more concerned with getting back inside. The windows are open, letting out the smell of roasting meat. I raise my hand, catch myself hesitating, and knock on the door.
Gretchen opens it. She stands back to let me in, blocking the dog’s attempt to dart past with a terse ‘No, Lulu!’
The kitchen is warm and humid with cooking. Saucepans are simmering on the old range. Mathilde is stirring one briskly with a spoon. She gives me a perfunctory smile.
‘Sit down.’
I go to the table, which is set with four places, and pull out one of the unmatching chairs.
‘That’s Papa’s,’ says Gretchen.
She lingers by the table while I move to another seat. Except for when I told her to stay in the house last night, we haven’t spoken since her tantrum – I don’t know what else to call it – outside the barn. There’s nothing in her manner now to indicate either embarrassment or hostility. She acts as though nothing’s happened.
‘Ask him if he’d like an aperitif,’ Mathilde tells her.
‘I know, I was going to,’ Gretchen snaps. She turns to me, awkwardly. ‘Would you like an aperitif?’
‘That sounds good.’
I’m going to need a drink to help me get through this evening; I’m on edge enough as it is. I expect Gretchen to tell me what they have, but she looks enquiringly at her sister. Mathilde keeps her eyes on her saucepans.
‘There’s pastis.’
I wait, but that seems to be it.
‘Pastis is fine,’ I say.
Arnaud comes in as Gretchen’s taking the bottle from a cupboard. He’s carrying Michel, who looks sleepy and fractious.
‘What’s this?’ he asks, frowning when he sees what she’s doing.
Gretchen pauses in unscrewing the cap from a bottle of Ricard. ‘Mathilde told me to get him an aperitif.’
Arnaud looks over at me for the first time. I’m sure he’s going to tell her to put the bottle away, but he only shrugs.
‘If he wants to rot his gut with that stuff it’s up to him.’
Gretchen pours a big measure into a small glass and fills another with water. She sets them both on the table in front of me. I smile thanks and pour a little water into the clear amber liquid. It swirls, turning opaque and milky. I take a drink and feel the liquorice warmth burn down my throat.
Arnaud is watching me as I lower the glass. ‘Gut rot,’ he says again.
I raise the glass in an ironic toast. Gut rot or not, it tastes better than his wine. Michel begins squirming irritably. Arnaud jogs him up and down.
‘Hey, hey, none of that, eh?’
‘He should be in bed,’ Mathilde says, glancing over from the saucepan she’s stirring.
‘He didn’t want to go.’
‘He’s tired. If you put him down he’ll—’
‘I said he didn’t want to go.’
The sound of saucepans bubbling is suddenly the only noise in the room. Mathilde keeps her head down. The flush on her cheeks could be from the heat of the range, but it wasn’t there a moment ago. Arnaud stares at her, then holds out Michel to Gretchen.
‘Here. He needs changing.’
‘But Papa—!’
‘Do as you’re told.’
Mathilde puts down the spoon.
‘I’ll take him.’
‘You’re cooking. Gretchen can do it.’
‘I’d rather—’
Arnaud silences her with a raised finger, levelling it at her like a gun until she lowers her head and turns back to the pan. He motions to Gretchen.
‘Take him.’
Gretchen flounces out of the kitchen with the baby. Arnaud wanders over to the range and sniffs at the steaming pans. He takes the spoon from Mathilde and tastes the sauce.
‘More pepper.’
As she obediently grinds peppercorns he sits at the table, lowering himself with a sigh that’s almost a grunt into the chair. His chair, of course.
‘I see the top section of wall’s nearly done,’ he says, settling.
I take a sip of Ricard. ‘It’s getting there.’
‘How much longer do you think it’ll take?’
I put down my glass. I don’t want to think about the future. ‘To finish the entire wall? I don’t know, a few weeks maybe.’
‘And the rest of the house?’
‘Longer than that. Why?’
‘Just so I know.’
As we’re talking Mathilde takes the saucepan from the heat and quietly slips out. If Arnaud notices he doesn’t object. He picks up the opened bottle of wine from the centre of the table and pours himself a glass. He takes a sip and grimaces. There’s a basket of bread next to the bottle. He breaks off a chunk and chews it as he drinks.
