Stone Bruises (12 page)

‘Pig! Come out, pig!’

No wonder it’s bad-tempered, I think. Another handful of dirt follows. There’s an angry grunt from inside, and then the boar bursts out.

It’s even bigger than the sanglochons. And uglier. Small tusks jut from its lower jaw, and ears big as dock leaves flap over its eyes as it peers around myopically, trying to see where we are. Then it charges.

‘Christ!’ I say, hopping backwards as the boar slams into the fence. My crutch slips and I sit down, hard, in a patch of dried mud. I scramble to get the crutch under me again as the fence shudders. Gretchen hasn’t budged. She’s found a length of stick, and as the boar shoves at the fence she jabs at it over the top.

‘Go on, pig! Pig! Go on!’

The boar squeals, enraged. The spaniel sets up its own commotion as Gretchen lashes at the pig’s back with the stick, the impacts meaty but insignificant against its bulk.

‘I wouldn’t do that,’ I tell her.

‘I’m only teasing it.’

‘I don’t think it sees the joke.’ The boar is battering at the fence in an attempt to get at the barking dog, making the planks creak and shudder. No wonder Georges had to repair it. ‘Come on, leave it alone.’

Gretchen regards me haughtily, out of breath. ‘What’s it got to do with you? It’s not your pig.’

‘No, but I don’t think your father would want you to beat up his prize boar.’

She glares, still clutching the stick. For a moment I think she might use it on me, but then a rusty old 2CV bumps into the clearing. It stops by the pens and Georges climbs out. He doesn’t seem any taller now he’s standing than when he was in the car. His face is rigid with disapproval as he comes over.

He takes in the boar, still attacking the fence. This time I merit a cursory glance before he addresses Gretchen. ‘What’s going on?’

She looks sullenly at the floor. ‘Nothing.’

‘Then why is the boar upset? What was the dog doing by his fence?’

Gretchen shrugs. ‘Just playing.’

His mouth tightens. ‘You shouldn’t bring the dog down here.’

‘We didn’t. She ran off.’

Georges just looks at her. I’m not happy that she’s making me complicit in the lie, but I don’t contradict her. Not that he seems interested in me anyway.

‘You shouldn’t bring the dog down here,’ he says again. He goes past us to the pen. The boar snaps at him when he reaches over the fence, but then subsides and lets him scratch its head. I can hear him talking to it, soothingly, but can’t hear what he’s saying.

Gretchen pulls a face at his back. ‘Come on. We mustn’t upset Georges’s precious pigs.’

She takes angry swipes with the stick as we leave the clearing. ‘He’s such an old woman! All he cares about are the stupid pigs. He even smells like them, did you notice?’

‘Not really.’ I did, but I’m not going to side with her. This was a bad idea in the first place: all I want now is to get back before Arnaud sees us together.

‘It’s the vinegar he rubs on them,’ she goes on, oblivious. ‘He says it toughens their skin against the sun but it makes him stink as bad as they do.’

Not just Georges. As we near the barn it becomes apparent that something of the sanglochons has accompanied us from the pens.

‘What’s that smell?’ Gretchen asks, sniffing.

I look down at the muddy smears on my jeans and hands. ‘Oh, shit …’

‘You smell worse than Georges!’ she laughs, backing away.

She’s right, but at least it’s encouraged her not to hang around any longer. I wait until she’s out of sight before I strip off my T-shirt. Grimacing, I go inside the barn to clean myself up.

The sanglochon stink is still in my nose as I cross the courtyard to the scaffold. The sun has lost some of its bite since Gretchen and I came back, but the cobbles still shimmer with heat. It doesn’t seem to have any effect on the storeroom’s dank interior, though. After the dazzling brightness of the courtyard, it’s like stepping into a crypt. I block open the door with a bag of sand, waiting until the shadows take on individual shapes before I go inside.

There’s something eerie about the way everything has been left. The spade in its petrified mortar, the scatter of tools and materials; it all reminds me of a preserved archaeological scene. As my eyes adjust, I grope behind the door and take down what I’m looking for.

The overalls are red, or rather they were once. Now they’re crusted with dried mortar, dirt and oil. I’d remembered seeing them in here, and Mathilde told me to use whatever I needed. My skin creeps at the thought of wearing them, but they’ll protect me from the sun. And, filthy as they are, they don’t smell of pig shit.

Leaning my crutch against the wall, I strip to my shorts and pull the overalls on. The damp cotton feels unpleasantly clammy and gives off a stale whiff of old sweat. Still, they’re not a bad fit so I guess they belonged to the previous builder. They’re too long in the leg for Arnaud, and Georges could fit in one of the pockets.

I search through them as I go back outside. There’s a pair of leather work gloves in the side pockets, so stiff and curled they look like amputated hands. I discard them along with a pencil stub and a small notepad that’s filled with scrawled measurements. That seems to be about it, but then as I pat down the pockets for a last time I find something else.

A condom, still sealed in its wrapper.

It’s not the sort of thing I was expecting to find in a pair of work overalls. I look back at the storeroom as something occurs to me. I haven’t given it much thought, but now I wonder if there’s a connection between the unfinished house and Michel’s absent father. That would explain Mathilde’s strange behaviour earlier, and also Gretchen’s reaction down by the lake. She told me that Michel’s father had betrayed them and let them down.

Maybe in more ways than one.

Leaving the condom in a corner of the storeroom, I wedge the crutch under my arm and climb up the scaffold. The ladder rungs are hot enough to sting my hands, and the platform at the top is like a kiln. There’s no shade, and I’m already thankful for the overall’s long sleeves. My doubts start to return as I consider the crumbling wall, so I pick up the lump hammer and chisel before I’ve chance to think about it.

‘OK, then,’ I say to myself, and take my first swing.

There’s something Zen-like about hacking out the old mortar. The work is hard and repetitive, but hypnotic. Each steel-on-steel strike produces a clear musical note. With the right rhythm the chisel seems to sing, each new note sounding before the last has died.

It’s actually relaxing.

I have to keep stopping to rest, but I soon find a pace I can maintain. I get around the problem of my injured foot by stacking two or three of the big rectangular stones left on the platform and using them as a rest for my knee. Sometimes for a change I sit on them and work that way. It doesn’t keep the bandage from getting dirty, but there’s no helping that.

I don’t intend to work for long on my first day, but I lose track of time. It’s only when I break off to blink away a fragment of mortar from my eye that I see how low the sun is. The afternoon has passed without my noticing.

Now I’ve stopped various discomforts begin to announce themselves. My arms and shoulders are aching and sore, and I’ve an impressive collection of blisters from gripping the hammer. There’s also a livid bruise forming on the back of my hand, evidence of the times when I’ve missed the chisel.

I don’t mind: it feels like honest pain. But I must have caught my watch as well, because there’s a crack running across its face. The sight of it cuts through my mood like a slap. It’s still working but I take it off and slip it into my pocket anyway. I don’t want to damage it any more, and the watch is an uncomfortable reminder of things I’d rather forget.

Besides, I don’t need to know the time while I’m here: the farm operates to its own rhythm. Taking off the cap from my sweat-damp hair, I look at what I’ve achieved. The newly hacked-out mortar is paler than the older areas, but also dispiritingly small seen against the expanse of wall that remains. Still, I’ve made a start, and that feels surprisingly good.

Leaving the hammer and chisel on the platform, I climb slowly down the ladder. The sun-heated rungs sting my blisters, and each step is an effort. I’d kill for a beer, I think, limping into the storeroom to collect my clothes. A bottle – no, a glass. Tall and amber and misted with condensation. I can almost taste it.

Tormenting myself with the thought, I go back into the courtyard. I don’t notice Mathilde until I hear a crash of breaking crockery. I look round and see her in the doorway with Michel on one arm. At her feet is a shattered bowl of eggs, the bright yellow yolks smearing the cobbles.

She’s staring at me, white-faced.

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to surprise you,’ I say.

‘No, I … I didn’t realize you were there.’

Her eyes stray to the red overalls I’m wearing, and suddenly I think I understand. ‘There’s no shade up there so I put these on. I hope that’s OK?’

‘Of course,’ she says, too quickly.

I feel bad for giving her a shock but I wasn’t to know wearing the overalls would upset her. Her reaction makes me think I’m right about Michel’s father, but she’s already recovered her poise. The baby contentedly gums a piece of bread as she moves him to a more comfortable position.

‘How’s the work gone?’

‘Good. Well, OK.’ I shrug, trying to see where I’ve hacked out. It’s hardly visible from down here. ‘I’ve made a start, anyway.’

Mathilde holds out her hand for my bundled-up clothes. ‘Would you like me to wash those?’

‘Thanks.’ I don’t argue. The freezing water in the barn won’t get rid of the sanglochon smell, and I don’t relish washing in it myself. I’m tempted to ask if I can take a shower or a bath, but I can imagine what Arnaud would say to that. Well, if I can’t have a hot bath or a cold beer, there’s one thing I’d like at least.

‘You said earlier there was somewhere I could buy cigarettes. How far away is it?’

‘A couple of kilometres. Too far for you to walk.’

‘I don’t mind. I can take my time.’

It isn’t as if I’ve anything else to do. Now I’ve stopped working the endorphin high is starting to fade and my nerves are already beginning to jangle. It’ll be worse knowing I can’t calm them with a cigarette.

Mathilde glances back at the house, as though debating something. She pushes a strand of hair behind her ear.

‘Give me half an hour.’

YELLOW DUST BILLOWS
up around the van as it bounces over the track’s potholed surface. Mathilde is driving with the windows down, trying to dissipate some of the heat that’s built up inside during the day. The vinyl of the seats is torn, white wadding showing through in places. Mine has been mended, if it can be called that, with black electrical tape. Despite the open windows, the van smells of diesel, dog and stale pipe tobacco.

When I went back to the house after getting washed and changed Mathilde and Gretchen were arguing in the doorway. I stopped at the corner of the courtyard, not wanting to interrupt.

‘But it doesn’t need doing!’ Gretchen was insisting.

‘Yes, it does.’

‘Georges cleaned it yesterday! They’re only pigs, they don’t mind what they eat!’

‘Please, just do as you’re told.’

‘Papa didn’t say I had to. Why do I always have to do what you say? You’re just trying to get me out of the way so you can go into town with him—’

‘Just do it!’

It was the first time I’d heard Mathilde raise her voice. Gretchen flounced away, not so much as pausing when she saw me at the bottom of the courtyard.

‘I hope you enjoy yourselves!’ she snapped, flip-flops cuffing the cobbles as she marched past.

I watched her stomp off down the track towards the woods, then looked back at Mathilde. She was staring at the cobblestones, her posture tired. Then, realizing I was there, she straightened. Wordlessly, she went to the van, leaving me to follow her.

She doesn’t speak a word as she drives up the track to the road. When we reach the closed gate she stops, leaving the ignition running as she climbs out.

‘I’ll do it,’ I offer.

‘It’s all right.’

The padlock is obviously stiff, but eventually she manages to unlock it. She swings the gate open, lifting it up the last few feet to keep it from dragging on the ground. Returning to the van, she drives out onto the road, then gets out again to shut the gate. In the wing mirror I see her fastening the padlock, securing the farm behind us.

‘Why do you keep it locked?’ I ask when she gets back in, remembering how I’d found the gate open when I came for water.

‘My father prefers it.’

She seems to think that’s all the explanation that’s needed. Maybe it is, but as she sets off I still wonder who’d left the gate open before.

Being outside again is like re-entering a world I’d forgotten exists. I’m not prepared for how exposed I feel, how used I’ve become to the farm’s insular universe. But I’m soon lulled by the warm evening, and the steady note of the van’s engine. Beginning to enjoy myself, I rest my arm on the open window and let the slipstream buffet my face. The air has a warm, summer smell of pollen and tarmac. Mathilde, though, is less relaxed. And in a hurry to get back, judging by how fast she’s driving.

The old van vibrates under the sustained speed. The grey strip of road stretches ahead of us. Wheat fields come right to the roadside, broken up with tall and feathery poplars and fatter trees that look like broccoli florets.

Mathilde’s hand brushes my arm as she shifts down a gear when the van begins to grumble on an incline. It’s accidental, but suddenly I’m aware of her rather than our surroundings. She’s wearing a white shirt, cotton sleeves rolled just below her elbows. Her hands look weathered on the steering wheel. Against the brown skin her chipped fingernails are pink with health.

The silence, which until then I haven’t noticed, begins to feel uncomfortable.

‘Where did you learn to speak English?’ I ask to break it.

She blinks as though her thoughts are far away. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘You spoke English when I first woke in the loft. Did you learn it at school?’