Stone Bruises (18 page)

I doubted that, but I was starting to guess why the gate was unlocked when I first came to the farm. It couldn’t be easy for Gretchen to meet any local boys with Arnaud watching over her.

‘I got the impression it was more to do with your father. What’s he done to upset everyone?’ I asked.

‘Papa hasn’t done anything. It’s them,’ she’d said, and retreated into one of her sulks.

Since then there’s been no further mention of the incident; if not for the new bruise on my face it might never have happened. But I’ve come to understand that the farm has a way of absorbing events, closing over them like the stones I toss into the lake.

A few ripples to mark their passing, then they’re gone.

Arnaud regards the wall for a moment longer then jerks his head at me. ‘That can wait. Come on.’

‘Where?’

But he’s already walking away. I’m tempted to stay where I am, then I give in and go after him. He crosses the courtyard to the stable block and goes behind the tractor occupying one of the archways. By the time I’ve squeezed past it myself he’s already lifting something down from the back wall.

‘Does this thing ever move?’ I ask, rubbing my elbow where I’ve skinned it on the tractor’s bodywork.

His voice comes from the back of the stables. ‘Not since someone put sugar in its tank.’

‘Who?’

‘They didn’t leave a business card.’

I think about Didier, and wonder if this could be the reason for the traps. ‘Can’t you drain it?’

Arnaud reappears. He’s carrying something but it’s too dark to make out what it is. ‘Do you know anything about engines?’

‘Not really.’

‘Then don’t ask stupid questions.’

He comes nearer and I see he’s holding a chainsaw. It’s bulky and grimed with oil, its long blade lined with snaggled teeth. I step back, but he’s only going to a petrol canister. Unscrewing the fuel cap on the chainsaw, he begins to fill its tank.

‘What are you going to do with that?’ I ask, as the air sweetens with petrol.

‘We need to stock up with firewood.’

‘In summer?’

‘Green wood takes a long time to dry out.’

I glance through the stable’s archway at the house. ‘What about the wall?’

‘It’ll still be there when you get back.’ He adds oil from another container, then reseals the fuel cap and lifts the chainsaw in one hand. ‘Get the barrow.’

There’s a wheelbarrow beside a workbench. I struggle with it past the tractor, then set it down while Arnaud unceremoniously dumps the chainsaw into it. I’ve got a bad feeling about what’s coming next, and he doesn’t disappoint.

‘Bring that with you.’

With that he sets off out of the stable block, leaving me to follow. Laying my walking stick in the barrow, I take hold of the handles. The heavy chainsaw unbalances it when I take the weight, almost upending the whole thing. I hurriedly set the barrow down again and shift the saw into its centre. Then, hobbling awkwardly, I wheel it after Arnaud.

He walks ahead of me, across the courtyard and through the grapevines to the woods. I only catch up with him when he stops in a semi-cleared area near the statues, where smaller tree stumps stand among the bigger trunks like broken teeth. Kneading his lower back, he goes to a tree as I set the barrow down.

‘Here,’ he says, slapping it. ‘This one.’

It’s a young silver birch that’s found space to grow among the bulkier chestnuts. I look blankly at Arnaud as he takes his pipe out of his pocket and begins filling it. ‘What am I supposed to do?’

‘Cut it down, what do you think?’

‘You want
me
to do it?’

‘I didn’t bring you down here to watch. What’s wrong? Don’t tell me you’ve never used a chainsaw before.’

‘Yes. No, I mean.’

‘So now you get to learn. Just remember that it’ll cut through bone as easily as wood, so if you’re not careful it’ll take you apart instead of the tree.’ He gives a smirk. ‘Wouldn’t want any more accidents, would we?’

I clutch at the first excuse I can think of. ‘Aren’t we too close to the statues?’

‘They haven’t been hit yet, and they won’t be now if you do it right.’ He kicks the tree trunk about eighteen inches off the ground. ‘Cut a notch about here, then saw through to it from the other side. That’s all there is to it. Even you should be able to manage that.’

With that he goes and settles himself on a tree stump. The chainsaw sits in the wheelbarrow between us, waiting. My walking stick lies next to it, but if I was going to use my foot as an excuse I should have done it before I pushed the barrow down here. Arnaud gestures irritably.

‘Well, what are you waiting for? It won’t bite.’

I don’t want to go anywhere near the thing, but pride won’t allow me to refuse. I bend down and lift the chainsaw out. It’s as heavy as it looks, old and ugly and stained with oil. I hold it warily, half-expecting it to roar into life by itself. There don’t seem to be any guards or safety features, and what I assume is the starter cord is dangling from it. Conscious of Arnaud watching me, I brace myself and pull. Nothing happens.

‘Try turning it on. And you might want to put it down first,’ Arnaud says. He’s enjoying this.

There’s a toggle on the side of the machine. I flick it, then take hold of the cord again. This time when I pull it the engine chuckles and dies.

‘Are you sure it works?’ I ask.

‘It works.’

Gripping the cord tightly, I yank as hard as I can. The chainsaw shakes as it flares into life, then settles into a buzzing roar.

The noise is deafening. The saw shudders in my hands as I approach the tree. It’s a slender thing, the delicate leaves like translucent green coins against the silver bark. I lower the blade to where Arnaud indicated but can’t bring myself to cut.

‘Get on with it!’ Arnaud shouts against the din.

I set myself so I’m balanced without putting too much weight on my bad foot, take a deep breath and touch the teeth to the tree.

The saw’s buzzing rises to a scream. Fragments of raw white wood and bark spray out, and I instinctively draw back. The saw subsides to a growl. Imagining Arnaud’s smile, I put it to the tree again.

The saw judders as it tears through the wood. I brace myself against it, squinting against the splinters and chips it spits into my face. I cut a V-shaped notch as Arnaud instructed, then knock out the wedge of wood and begin to saw through the other side of the trunk. I hope I’m doing it right, but I’m not going to ask. I’m almost all the way through when the tree creaks and begins to lean.

I quickly step back. There’s a sound of cracking, then the silver birch topples and crashes down, bouncing once before settling to rest in a snapping of branches. As Arnaud predicted, it’s well clear of the statues. I’m impressed, despite myself.

He motions towards the saw. The engine noise drops as I let it idle.

‘There now,’ Arnaud smirks. ‘That wasn’t so bad, was it?’

I trim the branches from the tree and then set about carving the trunk into manageable segments. The clearing soon begins to look like a lumber yard, shards of white wood scattered around like confetti. While I’m attacking the trunk Arnaud gathers the lopped branches together, arranging them roughly by size so that all but the smallest can be used for kindling.

It’s hot work. Soon I’m stripped to my waist, the overalls rolled down and tied by their arms around my hips. Even Arnaud is forced to open his shirt, exposing a torso that’s hairless and pallid as milk against the nut brown of his face and neck. A waft of acrid sweat comes off him. What communication there is between us is reduced to gestures and signs. The whining of the chainsaw fills the woods as we go about dismembering the tree.

Finally, it’s done. When I switch the machine off, the sudden silence feels too heavy for the woods to support. Every noise seems amplified in the hush.

‘Let’s take a rest,’ Arnaud says.

I flop down with my back against the plinth of a statue. My skin is spattered with oil and woodchips. Arnaud grimaces in pain as he lowers himself onto the same stump he sat on earlier.

‘What’s wrong with your back?’ I ask.

‘I fell down the stairs.’ He gives a humourless smile. ‘Same as you.’

I hope it hurt, I think, reaching for my cigarettes. He begins to refill his pipe, pressing down the tobacco with his thumb as I search for my lighter. With my overalls rolled to my waist, it’s hard to get into the pockets.

‘Light?’

Arnaud tosses me a box of matches. I catch them, surprised. ‘Thanks.’

I light up, luxuriating in the nicotine hit as my muscles slowly uncramp. I can hear the faint tamp of Arnaud’s mouth on the pipe stem, the faint whistle of air through its bowl. The first bird risks a tentative call. Gradually, the life of the woods returns to normal. I feel no urge to disturb it as I enjoy my cigarette. When it’s finished I stub it out and put my head back.

I hear Arnaud chuckle. ‘What?’ I ask.

‘I was just admiring your choice of backrest.’

I turn to find that I’m propped against the statue of Pan. The pagan god’s crotch is right behind my head.

I settle back again. ‘If he doesn’t mind, neither do I.’

Arnaud snorts, but seems amused. He takes the pipe from his mouth and raps the bowl smartly against the heel of his boot to empty it. He grinds the ash into the soil but doesn’t put the pipe away.

‘How much do you think they’re worth?’ he asks abruptly.

For a moment I think he means the trees, before I realize he’s talking about the statues.

‘No idea.’

‘No? You’re so smart, I thought you knew everything.’

‘Not when it comes to stolen statues.’

Arnaud takes out a short-bladed pocketknife. He begins scraping out the bowl of the pipe. ‘Who said they were stolen?’

‘You wouldn’t have hidden them down here if they weren’t.’ I’m not going to admit it was Gretchen. ‘Why haven’t you sold them?’

‘Why don’t you mind your own business?’ He grinds the knife into the pipe, but lowers it again after a moment, the task forgotten. ‘It isn’t that simple. You have to be careful who you approach.’

Very careful, judging by the grass growing around them. They’ve obviously been here for some time. ‘If you didn’t already have buyers, why did you get so many?’

‘I had a … business associate. He said he knew a dealer who would take them off our hands.’

I stub out my cigarette. ‘What happened?’

Arnaud’s mouth is clamped into a bitter line. ‘He let me down. Betrayed my trust.’

It’s almost the same phrase Gretchen used about Michel’s father. I’d put money on him and this ‘associate’ being the same man: the man whose dirty overalls I’m currently wearing. One way or another, Jean-Claude’s nameless brother certainly left a mess in his wake. No wonder they don’t want to talk about him.

‘So why don’t you just get rid of them?’ I ask.

He snorts. ‘If you want to try lifting them, go ahead.’

‘You managed to get them down here.’

‘We had lifting gear.’

‘You mean your associate did.’

Arnaud gives an angry nod. He considers the pipe bowl again. ‘I thought you might have some ideas. Contacts.’

‘What sort of contacts?’

‘The sort who wouldn’t be too interested in where the statues came from. There must be plenty of rich English bastards who’d pay for this sort of thing.’ When he looks at me there’s a shrewd glint in his eye. ‘There’d be something in it for you.’

‘Sorry, but I don’t know anyone.’

His scowl deepens. ‘I should have known you wouldn’t be any use.’

I can’t help myself. ‘This “business associate”. Did he suggest making your own wine as well?’

Arnaud’s look is answer enough. Snapping the knife shut, he rams it in his pocket as he pushes himself awkwardly to his feet.

‘You can start taking the wood back.’

‘By myself? How?’ I look at the pile of cut timber. It was hard enough bringing the wheelbarrow down here with just the chainsaw in it.

He gives me a grim smile. ‘Smart-arse like you, you’ll think of something.’

It’s early evening before I finish taking the sawn-up tree to the house. I make trip after trip, limping up and down the track until I’m aching all over. I keep telling myself that each trip is the last, that Arnaud can do the rest himself. But I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of sneering that I couldn’t manage. And leaving the silver birch to litter the woods seems too wasteful, no better than vandalism after I’ve cut it down.

So I carry on until all the logs are stacked under a lean-to at the back of the house. Only when I’ve put the wheelbarrow away do I remember I’ve left my walking stick in the woods. I almost don’t bother going back: I’ve coped without it all afternoon, and the wounds on my foot are healing nicely. But just thinking about it makes them hurt again.

Besides, I’ve grown used to having something to lean on.

After I’ve stripped off my overalls I try to wash myself at the tap in the barn. Water runs between the cobbles, pooling in the rough concrete depression before draining into the deepening crack in its surface. As I try to scrub myself clean I make a note to bring some mortar down here to patch it. The cold water takes away my breath, but not even the block of caustic homemade soap can cut through the coating of oil and tree-bark.

I persevere until my skin is raw and wrinkled, then throw down the soap in disgust. Turning off the tap, I put my overalls back on and collect clean clothes from the loft. Then I go to the house and knock on the kitchen door.

Mathilde opens it.

‘I could really use a bath,’ I tell her wearily.

I’m ready for an argument, and if Arnaud was there I’d probably get one. But there’s no protest from inside the room. Mathilde just takes in my oil-spattered state and steps back.

‘Come in.’

The kitchen is full of cooking smells. Pans are bubbling on the range, but the kitchen is empty except for her.

‘Where is everyone?’

‘My father’s with Georges and Gretchen’s taken Michel out. He’s teething again. The bathroom’s this way.’

She leads me through the door at the back of the room and into a hallway. It’s gloomy, unlit at this time of day by either natural or electric light. The stairs are steep and narrow, tarnished brass rods gripping the worn carpet. I follow her up them, taking hold of the painted wooden banister for support and keeping my eyes on the stairs instead of Mathilde’s legs.