Stone Bruises

‘We used to. Papa wanted to call it Château Arnaud. He got a good deal on some vines and dug up our beet fields, but the grapes weren’t hardy enough for our soil. They got some sort of blight, so we only produced one vintage. We’ve still got hundreds of bottles, though, and Papa says we’ll be able to sell them once they’ve matured.’

I think about the sour-smelling bottles in the barn and hope they aren’t planning on selling them any time soon. Gretchen picks another flower and works it into the plait. She looks at me over the top of it.

‘You don’t talk about yourself very much, do you?’

‘There’s not much to say.’

‘I don’t believe you. You’re just trying to be mysterious.’ She gives a smile that shows off her dimples. ‘Come on, tell me something. Where are you from?’

‘England.’

She gives my arm a playful slap. It hurts. ‘I mean whereabouts?’

‘I’ve been living in London.’

‘What do you do there? You must have a job.’

‘Nothing permanent. Bars, building sites.’ I shrug. ‘A bit of English teaching.’

There’s no clap of thunder, and the ground doesn’t split. Gretchen picks another flower and seems about to ask something else, but the dog chooses that moment to drop the stone it’s been chewing on my lap.

‘Oh, thanks a lot.’

I gingerly lift the saliva-coated offering and fling it away. The dog tears down the bluff and slows to a confused stop when the stone splashes into the water. It stares after it then back at me, heartbroken.

Gretchen laughs. ‘She’s so stupid.’

I find another stone and call the dog. It’s still distracted by the loss of the first, which was evidently its favourite, but catches on when I throw the substitute into the trees. Happy again, it sprints after it.

‘Gretchen’s a German name, isn’t it?’ I ask, glad of the chance to change the subject.

She adds another flower to the chain. ‘Papa’s family were from Alsace. I’m named after my grandmother. And Michel here has Papa’s middle name. It’s important to keep the family traditions going.’

‘Who’s Mathilde called after?’

Gretchen’s expression turns hard. ‘How should I know?’

She plucks a flower so forcefully its roots come up with the stem. Discarding it, she picks another. I try to lighten the atmosphere. ‘So, how old’s Michel?’

‘He’ll be one in autumn.’

‘I haven’t seen his father. Is he from around here?’

I’m only trying to make conversation but Gretchen’s face hardens even more. ‘We don’t talk about him.’

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.’

After a moment she gives a shrug. ‘It’s no secret. He left before Michel was born. He let us all down. We welcomed him into our family, and he betrayed us.’

That sounds like her father talking, but I keep any more comments to myself. Threading one last flower onto the link, Gretchen connects the two ends and loops the chain around Michel’s neck. He grins, then snaps it in his small fist.

A blankness comes over Gretchen’s features, as if someone’s taken hold of the skin and pulled it back. She slaps his arm, harder than she hit mine.

‘Bad boy!’ Her nephew starts to howl. I’m not surprised: her hand has left a red imprint on his chubby little arm. ‘Bad, bad boy!’

‘It was only an accident,’ I say, worried she’s going to slap him again.

For a second I think she might hit me instead. Then, as suddenly as it came, the mood passes. ‘He’s always doing things like that,’ she says, throwing the broken flower chain aside. She picks up her nephew and cuddles him. ‘Come on, Michel, don’t cry. Gretchen didn’t mean it.’

I’d say she did, but the baby is more easily persuaded. His howls subside to hiccups and soon he’s chuckling again. After Gretchen’s wiped his eyes and nose the entire incident is forgotten. ‘I’d better take him back,’ she says, climbing to her feet. ‘Are you coming?’

I hesitate. I’d rather stay by the lake, and then there’s her father to consider. ‘No, I’d better not.’

‘Why, are you scared of Papa?’ She grins.

I don’t know how to answer that. The man’s already threatened me with a rifle and kicked me downstairs, and I’m in no rush to provoke him any further. But the accusation still rankles.

‘I think it’s better if I keep out of his way, that’s all.’

‘Don’t worry. He has a bad back so he goes to bed after lunch. And Georges goes home for his, so there’s no one to tell.’

She’s waiting for me to go with them. It doesn’t seem as though I’ve got much choice, so with a last look at the lake I manoeuvre myself inelegantly to my feet. Gretchen slows to allow me to keep up as we walk back through the woods, hip thrust out to support the baby’s weight, legs long and tanned below the paleblue dress. Her flip-flops scuff on the dirt track, beating out a counterpoint to the scrape of my crutch. A late-afternoon hush has settled. It seems even more pronounced when we reach the statues, the stone figures lending it the quiet of a church nave.

‘What are these doing here?’ I ask, pausing to catch my breath.

Gretchen barely glances at them. ‘Papa’s going to sell them. He started collecting them years ago. You’d be surprised what old châteaux have in their gardens.’