Simon Beckett - Stone Bruises

There’s a muttered curse from Arnaud. He lowers the rifle, clicking his tongue in exasperation. Lulu comes trotting back with her head held high, the bird lolling from her mouth. Arnaud takes it from her and tousles her ears.

‘Good girl.’

For all his disappointment, the shooting has put him in a better humour. He tucks the bird – a partridge, I think – into his knapsack.

‘Time was I’d have got them both. My reactions aren’t what they were. Aim and shoot automatically, that’s what it comes down to. You’ve got to let instinct take over. Make the first shot count.’ He gives me a cold glance. ‘Stop to think about it and you miss your chance.’

I choose to take him literally. ‘Why don’t you use a shotgun?’

‘Shotguns are for people who can’t shoot.’ He rubs the stock of the rifle. ‘This is a 6mm Lebel. Used to be my grandfather’s. Older than me and still fires .22 cartridges true to fifty yards. Here. Feel the weight.’

Reluctantly, I take it from him. It’s surprisingly heavy. The wooden stock is polished a warm satin from use, marred by a crack that runs for half its length. A sulphurous, used-firework smell comes from it.

‘Want to try?’ he asks.

‘No thanks.’

Arnaud’s grin is infuriatingly cocksure as I hand it back. ‘Squeamish again, or just frightened of loud noises?’

‘Both.’ I hoist the sack. ‘Shall we get on?’

It’s late morning when we return to the house. We’ve filled half a dozen sacks with traps, and haven’t even started on the woods by the lake.

‘We’ll do them some other time,’ Arnaud says, rubbing his back. ‘If the police come again they’ll look near the road first.’

The sacks are cumbersome and heavy, so we take one each and leave the rest in the woods. Arnaud dumps his with a clank in the courtyard and gruffly instructs me to fetch the others myself. No surprise there, I think sourly, as he goes into the house. It take me several trips to collect them, lugging one sack at a time over my shoulder like a scrap-iron Santa. By the time the last of them has been safely stowed in the stable block, I’m aching all over and dripping with sweat. Sucking a skinned knuckle, I stand in the courtyard to catch my breath. There’s a movement in the kitchen doorway and Mathilde comes out.

‘Is that the last of them?’ she asks, shielding her eyes from the sun.

‘For now. There’s still the woods around the lake, but we’ve finished up here.’

I can’t tell if she’s pleased or not. ‘Would you like a coffee?’

‘Thanks.’

I follow her inside. Except for Michel, who’s sitting in a wooden playpen, we’re alone in the kitchen. I sit at the table, remembering at the last minute not to sit in Arnaud’s chair.

‘It’s all right, he’s gone to lie down,’ Mathilde says, seeing me avoid it. ‘His back.’

I can’t find it in myself to be sympathetic. ‘Where’s Gretchen?’

‘Collecting eggs. She won’t be long.’ Mathilde spoons ground coffee into the aluminium percolator and sets it on the range. ‘How’s her English progressing?’

It’s the first time she’s asked. I try to be diplomatic. ‘Let’s say I don’t think she’s very interested.’

Mathilde makes no comment to that. She occupies herself at the sink until the percolator begins making choking noises, then takes it from the heat and pours the black liquid into a cup.

‘Aren’t you having any?’ I ask as she brings it over.

‘Not right now.’

She hesitates by the table, though, and then surprises me by sitting down as well. She looks tired and I find myself remembering her father’s proposal. To take my mind off it I sip at the scalding coffee, searching for something to say.

‘Are you sorry the traps have gone?’

It isn’t the best conversational opening, but Mathilde takes it in her stride. ‘No. I never wanted them.’

‘Your father seems to think the farm needs protection.’

She looks at me, then away. The grey eyes are unfathomable. ‘No one can cut themselves off completely.’

For some reason that feels like a reproach. We both watch Michel in his pen, as though hoping he’ll break the silence. He carries on playing, oblivious.

‘Do you—’ I begin, then stop myself.

‘Yes?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

She looks at Michel, as though guessing what I’m going to ask. ‘Go on.’

‘I just wondered… do you ever hear from his father?’

I half-expect her to grow angry. She only shakes her head, still watching Michel. ‘No.’

‘Where is he?’

There’s the slightest of shrugs. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Doesn’t he want to see his own son?’

I regret it the moment it’s out. Of all people, I’ve no right to ask something like that. There’s a beat before Mathilde answers.

‘Michel wasn’t planned. And Louis never liked responsibility.’

I’ve already asked more than I should. Yet there’s a sense of intimacy between us I’m sure I’m not imagining. Something about the way she sits there makes me want to reach out: instead I wrap both hands around the coffee cup.

‘Haven’t you ever thought about going away? Just you and Michel?’

She looks startled by my bluntness. So am I, but the more I see of her father and sister – even Georges – the more I think that Mathilde is the only sane person on this farm. She deserves better.

‘This is my home,’ she says quietly.

‘People leave home all the time.’

‘My father—’ She breaks off. When she carries on I have the feeling that it isn’t what she was going to say. ‘My father dotes on Michel. I couldn’t take him away.’

‘He’d still have Gretchen.’

Mathilde looks out of the window. ‘It’s not the same. He always wanted a son. Daughters were always… a disappointment. Even Gretchen. Now he has a grandson, he expects him to be brought up on the farm.’

‘That doesn’t mean you have to go along with it. You’ve got your own life.’

Her chest silently rises and falls. The only sign of any agitation is the quick pulse in her throat. ‘I couldn’t leave Gretchen. And she wouldn’t come with me.’

No, she probably wouldn’t, I think, remembering what her sister has said about her. Still, Mathilde’s acceptance is infuriating. I want to ask if she thinks Gretchen would do the same for her, to tell her she’s wasting her life at the beck and call of a man who’s just tried to barter her away like damaged goods. But I’ve already said more than I should, and at that moment the kitchen door opens and Gretchen walks in.

‘The hen with the bad eye’s getting worse,’ she says, hugging a bowl of eggs to her stomach. ‘I think we should—’

She stops when she sees us. Mathilde stands up and quickly moves away from the table. I feel myself colouring, as though we’ve been caught out.

‘What’s he doing here?’ Gretchen asks.

‘Just taking a break,’ I say, getting to my feet.

Mathilde begins washing the percolator. ‘What’s that about the hen?’

Gretchen doesn’t answer, but her face says it all.

‘I’d better get back to work,’ I say, going past her to the door. ‘Thanks for the coffee.’

Mathilde gives a quick nod of acknowledgement but doesn’t look round. Gretchen ignores me completely, her eyes locked on her sister’s back. I go outside, but I’ve not gone far before raised voices come through the open kitchen window. They’re indistinct at first, but then one of them – Gretchen’s – gains in pitch and volume until the words themselves become audible.

‘… do what you say? Why do you always try to spoil everything! ’

I can’t make out Mathilde’s reply, only its placating tone. Gretchen’s voice grows more strident.