‘
There’s a sharp crack of flesh on flesh. A moment later the door is flung open and Gretchen bursts out. I quickly move into the stable block as Mathilde appears in the doorway.
‘Gretchen!’
She sounds anguished. Gretchen spins around to face her, revealing a reddened imprint on her cheek.
‘I
She runs across the courtyard. Mathilde starts after her, but halts at the sound of Michel’s crying. The unhappiness is written plain on her face before she notices me. Turning away, she goes back inside to her son.
I step out of the stable block’s shelter, making sure first that Gretchen has gone. Whatever problem she has with Mathilde, I’d rather not be caught in the middle of it. The farm’s usual quiet has returned. I head back for the barn, unsure what to do. There’s no point in mixing up a batch of mortar; it must be nearly lunch time and after my early start I don’t feel like clambering up the scaffold straight away. The coffee has left me thirstier than ever, so I go to the tap for a drink. As usual, the barn is cool and smells of old wood and sour wine. I turn the tap on, cupping my hands under the cold spatter. Over the top of its splashing I hear another noise. Turning off the tap, I go out of the barn, wiping my wet hands on my overalls. There’s a ruckus coming from the woods down by the lake. It’s too far away to make much out, but from the squeals it sounds like another sow is meeting its maker.
Then I hear the scream.
It’s Gretchen.
I set off down the track, stabbing my walking stick down in a gait that’s half-run, half-skip. The commotion becomes louder as I near the sanglochon pens. Shouts, barking, squealing. When I reach the clearing I see Georges, the boar and Lulu engaged in a complex dance. The old man is trying to herd the boar back into its pen while Lulu makes mad dashes at it. Enraged, the boar is wheeling round to try to get at her, thumping against the piece of board Georges is using to push it and almost barging the old man off his feet.
Nearby, Gretchen presses her hands to her mouth, transfixed.
‘Get the dog!’ Georges is shouting at her, struggling to block the boar and kick the spaniel away at the same time. ‘Get hold of it!’
Gretchen doesn’t move. I can see the old man is tiring. His attempts to keep the two animals apart are growing laboured. He glances around as I enter the clearing, and Lulu takes that moment to dart behind his legs. He staggers, losing his grip on the board, and as the dog tries to jink away the boar surges forward. There’s a shrill cry and an audible crunch as its jaws close on the spaniel’s hind leg.
I plough straight into the boar without slowing, hoping to knock it away from the dog. It’s like running into a tree trunk. My momentum carries me over its back, the breath huffing from me as I pitch onto the ground on the other side. I scramble away, frantically kicking at the thing’s tusks as it turns on me, and then Georges thrusts the board between us.
‘Get the other one!’ he shouts.
It’s propped against the fence. I grab it and rush back, snatching up my walking stick from where it landed. Pushing my board next to Georges’s, I bring the stick down on the boar’s head.
‘Not so hard!’ Georges snaps.
The boar doesn’t feel it anyway. It butts and thrusts at our boards as the spaniel crawls and flops away, her leg trailing behind her. Then Arnaud is there as well, adding his weight to ours. The three of us push and slap at the pig, using the boards to block its vision until at last we manage to steer it back inside its pen. It throws itself against the fence but Arnaud has already slammed and fastened the gate.
His face is grim as he turns to Georges, breathing heavily. ‘How did he get out?’
‘The gate was open,’ Georges states flatly. He’s the least winded of the three of us.
‘Christ almighty, didn’t you check it?’
The old man gives Arnaud a reproving look. ‘Yes.’
‘It couldn’t have opened itself!’
‘No,’ Georges agrees.
Arnaud’s face sets. ‘Where’s Gretchen?’
She’s nowhere in sight. Mathilde is there, though, crouching by the spaniel. It’s panting in shock, one hind paw hanging by threads of bloody tissue. Arnaud looks down at it, tight-mouthed.
‘I’ll fetch my rifle.’
Mathilde begins trying to lift the dog.
‘What are you doing?’ he asks.
‘I’m taking her to the veterinarian.’
‘No, you’re not. A bullet’s the best thing for her.’
Mathilde doesn’t answer. She struggles to her feet, hugging Lulu to her chest. The dog screams as its leg flops against her.
‘Didn’t you hear what I said?’ Arnaud demands.
‘I heard.’
She takes a step forward. He’s blocking her way.
‘You’re not going anywhere! Put her down and—’
‘No!’
The refusal stops him dead. It’s the first time I’ve seen her stand up to him. Arnaud glares at her, but Mathilde stares back, white-faced to his mottled anger.
‘I’m not going to let you kill her.’
