Her smile vanishes. ‘Why?’
‘She said she’d take my stitches out this morning. But if she’s not here it doesn’t matter.’
I feel a sneaking sense of relief at the delay, but Gretchen is already moving to let me in. The thin cotton dress she’s wearing shows off her tanned legs. ‘She’s upstairs with Michel.’
I hesitate, then step into the kitchen. The flagged floor, worn table and chairs are cosily familiar, yet the room doesn’t seem right without Mathilde. A chicken carcass lies next to the sink, plucked and naked.
‘I’ll come back later,’ I say, turning to go.
‘No, you can wait.’
It’s more an instruction than a reassurance. I look through the doorway at the sunlit courtyard as Gretchen goes to the chicken and picks it up by its yellow feet. Its head flops as she splays it out on a chopping board. One of its eyes is milky and blind, I notice. I try not to flinch as she brings down a large cleaver, severing the outstretched neck.
‘Why don’t you sit down?’
‘I’m OK, thanks.’
Scraping the decapitated head into the sink, she flips the chicken round and deftly cuts off both feet. ‘It seems like I hardly see you any more.’
‘I was here last night.’ It’s taken for granted now that I’ll eat with them every evening. I’m free to enjoy the rest of my meals alone, but I’ve begun to miss my solitary dinners outside the barn. Watching Arnaud work his way through his sour wine, his volatility increasing as the bottles empty, soon becomes wearing.
Gretchen looks over her shoulder at me. ‘That isn’t what I mean. You’re not avoiding me, are you?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘Good. I thought you might be cross about something.’
I don’t have an answer to that. The thin scabs on my arm left by the fork tines are itching, and I only just stop myself from rubbing them. The kitchen’s low ceiling and heavy furniture suddenly feel oppressive.
‘We could have lunch together today,’ Gretchen says, pulling something red from the chicken’s gullet. ‘You could teach me some more English.’
I look towards the doorway leading to the stairs, but there’s no sign of Mathilde. ‘I didn’t think you were interested.’
‘I will be, I promise.’
‘Uh, well, I…’
I look round with relief as the door to the stairs opens and Mathilde comes into the kitchen with Michel. When she sees us she seems to pause slightly before continuing into the room.
‘I didn’t hear you come in,’ she says, crossing to the high chair.
‘He’s been waiting to have his stitches taken out,’ Gretchen tells her, shoving the chicken under the tap. Blood from its severed neck streaks the sink.
‘I can come back,’ I say.
‘That’s all right.’ The baby struggles, howling as she tries to put him in the chair, his face red and wet. Mathilde turns to her sister. ‘Gretchen, can you take Michel?’
‘No, I’m busy.’
‘Please. He won’t settle in the chair while he’s teething. I won’t be long,’ Mathilde says, trying to calm him.
‘He’s your son, I don’t see why I’ve always got to take him everywhere with me,’ Gretchen grumbles, but dries her hands as she goes for her nephew.
‘I’ll see to your stitches in the bathroom,’ Mathilde says. She turns away, so misses the glare Gretchen shoots at her back.
I go around the table so as not to get too close to Gretchen while she’s near a cleaver. Closing the door behind us, I follow Mathilde upstairs. I sit on the side of the bath while she takes what she needs from a cupboard: tweezers, a small dish, a towel. I peel off the sock, revealing my foot in all its pallid glory. The wounds are still crusted in places but there’s also the raw pink of healing flesh from which the stitches sprout like bristles.
Mathilde crouches in front of me, using a cloth soaked in hot water to clean and soften the scabbed wounds. Then she spreads the towel on her lap and rests my foot on it. It feels awkwardly intimate.
‘This shouldn’t hurt too much.’
There’s a tugging sensation, no more, as she teases at the end of a stitch with a pair of tweezers. When it’s out she drops it into the dish and goes on to the next. Her hands are cool and gentle as she eases out the recalcitrant strands. I watch her as she works, wholly intent on what she’s doing, and find myself remembering Arnaud’s tacit offer. I shift my thoughts onto something else.
‘How’s Lulu?’ I ask.
‘There’s no change. The veterinarian says the stump’s infected.’
I try to think of something to say that won’t sound like a platitude but I can’t. More than ever, I’ve started to agree with Jean-Claude: Mathilde’s sentimentality hasn’t done any of them any favours. Least of all the dog.
‘Did you run into Jean-Claude the other day?’ she asks, as though reading my mind.
‘Jean-Claude…?’
‘When you were in town.’
‘Oh… Yes, he was at the builders’ yard.’ I feel like I’ve been caught out. ‘How did you know?’
‘You were gone a long time. I thought it might be because you’d seen him.’
I’m not sure if this is leading up to something, but she wouldn’t have brought it up if she didn’t want to talk about it. ‘He told me Louis was missing,’ I say.
