Stone Bruises

A few hens peck lazily at the dirt but there’s no one about. Thinking about water has made me thirsty again. There’s the tap in the barn, but after the old man’s indifference I feel a need to see another human face, if only briefly. I limp towards the house, the crutch slipping on the smooth cobbles. Off to one side, the broken clock on the stable block is still caught in its frozen sweep, single hand poised at twenty to nothing. The farm vehicles parked below it don’t seem to have moved since the last time I was here. A dusty van and trailer sit outside the stable block as though they’ve died there, while the radiator of a decrepit tractor pokes from one of the arched stalls like the muzzle of a sleeping dog. Another stall is occupied by an old blacksmith’s forge. Strips of iron are propped against it, but it isn’t until I see the crude triangular teeth on one that I realize what I’m looking at.

Feeling a memory-ache in my foot, I carry on to the house.

It’s even more run-down than I remember. The scaffold covers half of it, and unpainted shutters hang from the windows like the wings of dead moths. The ground at the foot of the wall is speckled with pieces of mortar that have fallen out, hardly any more cohesive than sand. A half-hearted attempt has been made to repair the crumbling stonework but it’s obviously been abandoned. And not recently: the scaffolding is rusted in places, and so is a chisel that lies on the ground under it. When I nudge it with my crutch it leaves a perfect imprint of itself on the cobbles.

The kitchen door stands open. Wiping the sweat from my eyes, I knock on it. ‘Hello?’

There’s no answer. As I turn away I notice another door further down, unpainted and warped. Labouring over on my crutch, I knock again, then tentatively push it open. It creaks back on unoiled hinges. Inside is dark, and even from the doorway I can feel the damp chill that spills out.

‘What are you doing?’

I spin round, performing an intricate dance with my crutch and good foot to keep my balance. Mathilde’s father has materialized from behind the stable block. There’s a canvas bag slung over his shoulder, from which the bloodied leg of a rabbit protrudes. More worrying is the rifle he carries, which is pointing right at me.

‘Are you deaf? I said what are you doing?’

In the daylight he’s older than I’d thought, nearer sixty than fifty, with brown melanomas of sun and age freckling his forehead. He isn’t particularly tall, short in the legs and long in the body, but he’s still a bull of a man.

I take a second to steady myself on the crutch, trying not to look at the rifle. ‘Nothing.’

He glances at the open door behind me. ‘Why are you prowling around?’

‘I wanted a drink of water.’

‘There’s a tap in the barn.’

‘I know, but I needed some fresh air.’

‘I thought you said you wanted water?’ Against the weathered skin his pale-grey eyes look like chips of dirty ice. They go to the crutch and harden even more. ‘Where’d you get that from?’

‘I found it in the loft.’

‘And who said you could use it?’

‘No one.’

I’m not sure why I’m protecting Mathilde but it doesn’t seem right to lay the blame on her. I’m acutely aware of the rifle as her father’s chin juts aggressively.

‘So you thought you’d just help yourself? What else were you planning on stealing?’

‘I wasn’t…’ All at once I’m too exhausted to argue. The sun seems to be pressing down on me, sapping what little strength I have left. ‘Look, I didn’t think anyone would mind. I’ll put it back.’

I start to go past him back to the barn, but he’s blocking my way. He makes no attempt to move, keeping the rifle pointed at me. Until now I’d thought he was just posturing, but looking into the hard eyes I feel a sudden doubt. I’m past caring though. I stare back at him, and as the moment drags on a rhythmic creaking gradually impinges on the silence. Looking across the courtyard, I see Georges unhurriedly walking towards us, a rusted bucket swinging from one hand.

If he’s surprised to find his employer holding someone at gunpoint he doesn’t show it. ‘I’ve repaired the fence as best I can, M’sieur Arnaud. It’ll do for now but it still needs replacing.’

I might as well be invisible for all the notice he takes of me. Arnaud – I’d forgotten the name on the mailbox at the gate until now – has flushed deeper than ever.

‘All right.’

It’s a dismissal, but the old man doesn’t take the hint. ‘Will you be coming down to have a look?’

Arnaud huffs in irritation. ‘Yes, in a while.’

Georges gives a satisfied nod and goes back across the courtyard, still without reacting to my presence. I’m forced to lean on the crutch again as Arnaud regards me, jaw working as though he’s chewing his words.

But before he can spit them out a dog bursts from behind the stables. It’s a young springer spaniel, all lolling tongue and flapping ears. When it sees us it comes bounding past Arnaud and prances around me. I try not to show how much I’m shaking as I reach down to tousle its head.