Simon Beckett - Stone Bruises

‘I thought you said he’d let you all down?’

‘He did, but it wasn’t all his fault.’ She shrugs. Her eyes have a far-away look, as though something inside her has switched off. ‘He was good-looking. And fun. He was always teasing Georges, asking him if he was married to one of the sows, things like that.’

‘Sounds hilarious.’

Gretchen takes the comment at face value. ‘He was. There was this one time he took a piglet and dressed it up in his old handkerchief, like a nappy. Georges was furious when he found out, because Louis dropped it and broke its leg. He was going to tell Papa until Mathilde made him promise to say it was an accident. It would only have made Papa angry. And the sanglochons aren’t Georges’s anyway, so he’d no right to make a fuss.’

‘What happened to the piglet?’

‘Georges had to slaughter it. But it was a sucker, so we got a good price.’

The more I hear about this Louis, the less I like him. I can’t imagine Mathilde with someone like that, but as soon as I think it I realize how ridiculous I’m being. It isn’t as if I really know anything about her.

‘So where’s Louis now?’

‘I told you, Mathilde made him go away.’

‘But is he still living in town?’

Gretchen’s face has hardened; she looks every inch her father’s daughter. She throws the last of the dirt down onto the ants. ‘Why are you so interested?’

‘I only wondered if Mathilde—’

‘Stop going on about Mathilde! Why are you always asking about her?’

‘I’m not—’

‘Yes you are! Mathilde, Mathilde, Mathilde! I hate her! She spoils everything! She’s jealous of me because she’s old and droopy and she knows men want me more than her!’

I raise my hands, trying to placate her. ‘OK, calm down.’

But Gretchen is far from calm. The skin around her nose has turned white. ‘You want to screw her, don’t you? Or are you fucking her already?’

This is getting out of hand. I climb to my feet.

‘Where are you going?’

‘To work on the house.’

‘To see Mathilde, you mean?’ I don’t bother to respond. I reach down to pick up the plate but she dashes it from my hands. ‘Don’t ignore me! I said don’t ignore me! ’

She snatches up the fork and lashes out. I jerk back but the tines snag my arm, tearing the flesh.

‘Jesus…!’

I grab the fork from her and fling it away. A dark trickle of blood runs down my arm as I clamp my hand to the wound. I stare at Gretchen, more shocked than anything. She’s blinking as though she’s just woken up.

‘I’m sorry. I – I didn’t mean to…’

‘Just go.’ My voice is unsteady.

‘I said I’m sorry.’

I don’t trust myself to speak. After a moment Gretchen contritely gathers up the plate and cutlery, her hair hanging like a curtain over her face. Without another word she takes them around to the courtyard and disappears.

I stay where I am, waiting for my heart to slow down. The fork has left four parallel cuts in my bicep. Bloody, but not deep. I press my hand over them again. At my feet, the ants are swarming over the spilled food in an orgy of activity. The ones Gretchen killed have already been forgotten: all that counts is survival.

Leaving them to their feast, I go into the barn to clean my arm.

The sunset is spectacular. The dragonflies, bees and wasps that patrol the lake during the day have been replaced by midges and mosquitoes. Sitting with my back against the chestnut tree, I blow cigarette smoke into the air. I read somewhere that insects don’t like it, but these don’t seem to know that. I’m bitten already, but I won’t really feel them until the morning. Tomorrow can take care of itself.

I’ve brought Mathilde’s book with me. The peace is absolute, but I’ve no stomach for Madame Bovary tonight. The novel lies beside me, unopened, as I watch the last rays of sun turn the lake’s surface into a dark mirror.

My arm is sore where the fork tore it, but the cuts are only superficial. I washed them under the tap, letting the frigid water sluice away the blood. It ran in pink trails across the cobbles, draining into the widening crack in the patch of concrete. Another of my predecessor’s legacies. I told Mathilde I’d caught it on the scaffold and asked for cotton wool and sticking plaster. I thought it better to dress it myself than explain how I’d come by equidistant cuts. Your sister stabbed me with a fork because she hasn’t forgiven you for splitting up with Michel’s father. Who she seems to have liked a little too much .

No, that’s one conversation I’d rather avoid. Still, if Gretchen had a crush on Louis it would explain some of the tension between her and Mathilde. And maybe it was more than a crush, I think, remembering the crude drawing I found in his notebook. The naked woman could have been either of them, and Louis doesn’t sound the sort of man who’d have qualms about sleeping with both sisters.

Now who’s jealous?

The chestnut tree is full of spiny globes. They aren’t fully grown, but one of them has dropped prematurely and lies in the grass nearby. I pick it up, feeling the prickle of its spines in my palm. The sun has dipped below the trees now, and a dusky twilight has descended on the lake. I get to my feet and stand at the edge of the bluff. The chestnut makes a tiny splash when I throw it into the water. It floats like a miniature mine, bobbing above the darker shadow that marks the submerged rock.

Restless, I go down from the bluff and walk along the lakeside. I haven’t been this far before, never felt any desire to go any further. Now, though, I feel compelled to plot the extent of the farm’s boundaries.

The track ends at the bluff, and a little further along the woods come right to the water’s edge. I pick my way along it to the far bank of the lake, then carry on until I reach the end of the farm’s land. Strands of rusty barbed wire weave along the edge of the tree line, nailed into the trunks. There isn’t much to see on the other side except wheat fields. There are no paths or tracks down here, and if there’s any reason for the barbed wire I can’t see it. The wheat is hardly likely to trespass, but that isn’t the point.

Arnaud’s marking his territory.

If I needed more proof it comes only a few minutes later. I start to follow the fence, and only at the last second notice a hard-edged shape nestled in a tuft of grass. It’s one of Arnaud’s traps, jaws spread wide and waiting. I didn’t think he’d have bothered to put them all the way down here, but he obviously isn’t taking any chances. Neither am I: I look around until I find a stick and thrust it into the trap’s jaws. They snap shut hard enough to splinter the wood.

The thought of more of them hidden away snuffs any desire to explore further. In the fading light I use my walking stick to probe ahead of me as I head back to the lake. I come out on the opposite side to the bluff, and stand for a few moments to take it in from this new perspective. The banks of the lake are overgrown with reeds and bulrushes, but from here I can see a patch of shingle tucked behind a grassy hummock. I make my way over, my feet crunching as they sink into the thin covering of pebbles. The water shelves quickly, shading to dark green as it deepens. I crouch down and dip my hand in. It’s cold, and a mist of sediment stirs when my fingers touch the bottom.

This would be a good place to swim from, I think. Most of the lakeside is muddy, but I could wade out from here. I swirl my fingers through the water, silvering the broken surface. The air hasn’t lost its daytime heat, and the thought of stripping off and plunging into the cool lake is beguiling. Only my bandaged foot stops me, but I’ve waited this long. The stitches are almost ready to come out, and when they do I can celebrate with a long-overdue swim.