Stone Bruises (16 page)

‘Hello, Sean,’ he says.

He’s about thirty. Good-looking, with a stubbled jawline and gym-honed physique that suggest he’s overcompensating for his almost femininely long-lashed eyes. The leather jacket and carefully distressed jeans are too obviously expensive to pull off the street look he’s attempting.

I know straight away who he is. He regards me with a slyly condescending smile, as if he knows who I am as well.

I turn to Chloe. ‘How long will you be?’

She can’t look at me. ‘Ten minutes.’

Head down, she hurries off to serve someone. I can feel the man she called Jules watching me. Right then I wish I hadn’t given up smoking: it would give me something to do with my hands.

‘So you’re a teacher,’ he says.

‘For now.’ I hate the thought of Chloe talking to him about me.

He smiles into his vodka. ‘For now, eh? Sounds like you’ve got big plans.’

I don’t let myself respond. He sits easily on the high stool, letting his expensive jacket and clothes speak for themselves. I don’t ask what he does: I don’t want to know.

‘So, you and Chloe,’ he says.

‘What about us?’

‘Nothing.’ He seems amused again. ‘I hear you met a friend of mine a while back.’

‘News to me.’

‘Guy by the name of Lenny.’

The name doesn’t register. And then it does. The scary bastard who stopped us in the street that night. Chloe called him Lenny.

Jules slides off the bar stool. ‘Got to go. Tell Chloe I’ll be seeing her.’

I don’t trust myself to answer. I unclench my hands as I wait for Chloe to finish. We go out and walk along the street. I wait for her to say something, but she doesn’t. Not a word.

‘Who was that?’ I ask at last.

‘Who?’

‘Jules.’

‘Oh, just a customer.’

I stop. Chloe continues a couple of paces, high heels rapping on the pavement, before she stops and turns. This is the first time she’s looked me in the eye since I walked in the bar.

‘Don’t, Chloe.’

‘Don’t what?

‘Treat me like an idiot. That was him, wasn’t it?’

‘If you already know why bother asking?’

‘What did he want?’

‘Nothing.’

‘So why was he there?’

‘He came for a drink. People do, you know.’

‘Are you seeing him again?’

‘No! I can’t help who comes in the fucking bar, can I?’

She hurries away from me. I catch up and stand in front of her, blocking her path. Our breath steams luminously under a streetlight.

‘Chloe …’ Words clog in my throat. ‘What’s going on? For Christ’s sake, just talk to me.’

‘There’s nothing to talk about.’

‘Then why are you being like this?’

‘I’m not being like anything. Christ, get off my back, you don’t own me!’

‘
Own
you? Jesus, I feel like I don’t even
know
you!’

‘Perhaps you don’t!’

Her eyes are bright, with either tears or anger. It feeds my own. ‘OK, you know what? Forget it. I’ll pack my things and move out.’

It’s my turn to walk off. I’ve not gone far when I hear her footsteps hurrying after me. ‘Sean!’

I stop and turn. She puts her arms around me and rests her head on my chest. ‘Don’t go.’

My relief is so strong it scares me. ‘I can’t handle you seeing somebody else. If you are, tell me now. Just don’t play games with me.’

‘I won’t,’ she says, her voice muffled. ‘I’m sorry. I won’t, I promise.’

The pressure of her body snuggled against me feels warm and right. I stare over her head at the bleak chain of yellow lights running up the street. The frigid air carries an acrid tang from the unseen river. I stroke the familiar contours of Chloe’s back, feeling cold and remote with the certainty that she’s lying.

‘
I NEED CEMENT
.’

Mathilde looks up at me. The kitchen was empty when I returned my breakfast tray, so I guessed she’d be here in the vegetable garden. There’s a plastic bowl of freshly picked beans beside her, but at the moment she’s kneeling by the small flowerbed. She turns back to it, plucking out one of the weeds that have snaked up between the plants.

‘Isn’t there anything else you could be doing?’

‘Not really. I’ve hacked out as much as I can get to, and I better repoint that before I start anywhere else.’

The work’s gone quickly this past week. But I’ve had to remove so many loose stones that the upper level of the house looks ready to collapse. I hope that’s only superficial, and there was no option if I was going to do the job properly. Even so, I’d rather not leave the wall in this state for too long.

I’ve known this was coming for a few days, although I’ve been putting off telling Mathilde. After what happened at the roadside bar I’m not looking forward to venturing outside the farm again, and I doubt that she is either.

Whatever she’s feeling, though, she keeps it to herself. She plucks another weed from the soil. ‘When do you want to go?’

That was easier than I expected. I shrug. ‘I’ll have to make a list of what I need. But that won’t take long.’

She doesn’t look up from her flowerbed. ‘Come up to the house when you’re done.’

I realize I’ve been hoping she’d find an excuse not to go. But there’s nothing more to say. Leaving her to her weeding, I limp back round to the courtyard, leaning on the old walking stick Mathilde gave me to replace the crutch eaten by the boar. Its dark wood has teeth marks where one of Lulu’s predecessors chewed it, but it’s thick and substantial, with a tarnished silver collar on the handle.

I look quite the dandy.

I try to disregard my nerves as I block open the storeroom door so I can see what I’ll need to buy. Cement, for a start, but there seems to be plenty of sand. Another bucket and trowel, though, to replace the rusting ones. And a spade, I think, prodding the one frozen in the pile of mortar. It vibrates, twanging like a giant tuning fork. I search around until I find the grubby notepad and pencil stub I discarded from the overall’s pocket. I leaf through the pages for a clean one to make a shopping list. It’s full of scribbled measurements for old building projects, but one page catches my attention. It’s a crude drawing of a naked woman, and talentless as the artist was there’s one telling detail.

The woman’s hair is tucked behind an ear.

My first thought is that it’s Mathilde, that this is further confirmation of who Michel’s father is. Then I look again and I’m not so sure. There’s a dot on one cheek that could be a dimple, and I’ve occasionally seen Gretchen tuck her hair back in an unconscious echo of her sister. But the drawing is so primitive it’s impossible to tell who it’s supposed to be. If anybody: for all I know it could be a random doodle.

I guiltily snap the notebook shut when a noise comes from outside. It’s only Georges, though. The old man is trudging across the bottom of the courtyard, a clanking bucket in each hand. I smile ruefully at my reaction.
That’ll teach you
. Turning to a clean page, I begin jotting down what I need.

When I’ve finished I go back to the house. The door is open and Mathilde is busy dissecting a skinned rabbit. The bowl of freshly picked beans is beside her as she cuts and twists, deftly separating a leg joint.

‘I’m ready when you are,’ I say.

There’s a snort from the other side of the room, which is hidden behind the open door. ‘About time. It’s taken you long enough.’

I didn’t realize Arnaud was there. I push the door further back so I can see him. He’s sitting at the scarred dining table with a large cup of coffee, Michel on his knee gnawing at a crust of bread.

‘It’s a big house,’ I say, stung despite myself.

‘Not that big. Makes me wonder what you do up on that scaffold all day.’

‘Oh, you know. Sunbathe, read. Watch TV.’

‘It wouldn’t surprise me. You’re certainly not doing much work.’

There’s no real heat in the exchange. The bickering between us has become almost routine. It doesn’t mean we like each other.

Arnaud feeds a coffee-soaked crust to Michel. ‘He shouldn’t have that,’ Mathilde tells him.

Her father chuckles as his grandson crams the soggy mulch into his mouth. ‘He likes it. He knows what’s good for him.’

‘He’s too young.’

Arnaud is already dipping another piece. ‘It’s only coffee.’

‘I don’t want—’

The flat of Arnaud’s hand cracks on the table.

‘Are you
deaf
?’

Michel jumps at the shout, his face puckering. Arnaud gives Mathilde a final glare.

‘Now look what you’ve done!’ He bounces the baby up and down on his knee, his voice and expression softening as soon as he turns to his grandson again. ‘Shh, there’s a man. Here, there’s plenty more.’

Michel grasps the soggy piece of bread he offers and smears it around his mouth. Mathilde silently finishes disassembling the rabbit. The stiffline of her back and the red flush on her neck are her only protest.

A door at the back of the kitchen opens and Gretchen enters. She smiles when she sees me, which is enough to spoil Arnaud’s good humour.

‘What are you grinning at?’ he demands as she saunters across the room.

‘Nothing.’

‘Doesn’t look like nothing to me.’

‘I can smile if I want to, can’t I?’

‘It depends what at.’

His eyes go from his younger daughter to me, sharp and suspicious. There’s a world of difference between the posturing grumpiness of a moment ago and the hostility I’m confronted with now. The atmosphere in the kitchen is suddenly charged; even Michel falls silent as he looks up at his grandfather.

Then Mathilde comes and stands between us. It’s done so casually it could be accidental.

‘You wait by the van while I get the keys,’ she says.

I’m not sorry to go. I close the door behind me but I’ve gone only a few steps when there’s the muffled sound of breaking crockery, followed by the siren of Michel’s crying. I carry on across the courtyard to the van.

Just another day
chez
Arnauds.

Mathilde’s face gives nothing of her feelings away when she emerges from the house. She comes over and holds out a set of keys.

‘The big key is for the padlock on the gate. You’ll need to lock it behind you.’

‘You’re not coming?’

‘No.’ Her usual inscrutability seems strained. ‘You can drive?’

‘Yes, but …’ I wasn’t expecting this. I wasn’t looking forward to going, but thought at least Mathilde would be coming with me. ‘I don’t know where to go.’

‘The builders’ yard isn’t far from the garage. Keep following the road until you reach the town square. It’s on your right just after that.’

She’s still holding out the keys. I take them reluctantly, still searching for objections. ‘What about my foot?’

‘The pedals are well spaced. You should be able to manage.’ She opens the wallet-like purse and pulls out a few notes. ‘That should be enough for cement and whatever else you need. I’d give you an advance on your wages, but my father …’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

I’m too taken aback by this new development to care. Mathilde seems uncomfortable as well. As she turns away, she pushes her hair behind her ear. I’m reminded briefly of the drawing, but I’ve more pressing worries than Mathilde’s private life.

Even though it’s still early the inside of the van is stale and hot. I prop my walking stick on the passenger side, then slide behind the wheel and try my bandaged foot on the pedal. Provided I don’t snag the homemade shoe, it should be OK. Fastening the seatbelt prompts an unwelcome flare of memory, so I distract myself by checking the controls. I try the pedals again, then waste some more time adjusting the seat before I accept I’m only putting things off.

I turn the key.

The engine catches on the third attempt, rattling and roaring as I pump the accelerator to keep it from dying. When it’s settled to a steady grumble I lower the window and slowly drive out of the courtyard. The gears are stubborn. I bump along the track’s uneven surface in second. When I reach the gate I go through the time-wasting routine of opening it and driving through, then getting out of the van again to padlock it behind me. I climb back into the van and sit with the engine running, looking at the open road. Get on with it, I tell myself.

There are a few other cars about but not many. The old Renault is reluctant to come out of second. The gear lever is a fiddly thing that juts out from the dashboard, and the engine roars as I force it into third then up to fourth. There’s no fifth gear, but the old van cruises along happily enough once it’s got used to the idea. I point it straight down the grey strip of tarmac, heading into the heat-haze that retreats as fast as I head towards it. Already I can’t understand what I was so anxious about. I relax into the seat, beginning to enjoy myself.

My sunglasses give the parched countryside on either side a blue tint, deepening the sky to an improbable sapphire. I lean my arm out of the window, enjoying the breeze as the wheat fields whip past, until I realize how fast I’m going. Reluctantly, I slow down: the last thing I want is to be stopped for speeding.

Some of my tension returns as I near the garage and bar where Mathilde and I stopped. But there’s no one outside, and it’s gone in a flash. Given the evident tensions between her father and his neighbours, I can’t blame her for not wanting to come into town with me. Although calling it a town is flattering it, I see as I drive into it. It’s not much more than a village. There are a few houses and shops that open directly onto the narrow pavement, and then I’m at the main square. It’s small but pleasant enough, with plenty of trees for shade and a fountain in front of a boules court, on which two old men are already tossing steel balls at a tiny jack.

The open-fronted builders’ yard is down a side street but still visible from the road. I park by the piles of sand, bricks and timber outside a corrugated, hangar-like building and go inside. Pallets of cement and plaster are stacked head-high against the walls. I buy what I need and then awkwardly load the heavy bags of cement into the back of the van. It’s tricky, since I can’t use my stick, and no one working there seems in any hurry to help. But I don’t mind. My earlier anxiety has gone. In its wake comes a glow of confidence, born from relief as much as anything. As I drive back to the square I’m actually sorry to be returning to the farm so soon. When I see a parking space up ahead it occurs to me that I don’t have to.