Authors: Simon Beckett
‘Well?’ Arnaud demands. ‘What are you waiting for?’
I put the entrenching tool down. ‘You can do this one.’
There’s a malicious spark in his eye. ‘Brings back bad memories, does it? Don’t worry, it can’t hurt you now.’
I don’t answer. His smile fades. Dumping the bag and rifle, he snatches the tool from me and begins chopping at the ground around the spike, gouging indiscriminately at earth and tree roots. He’s a powerful man, but the spike is well buried, as I know from experience. It takes longer than the others to work loose and Arnaud is sweating before it’s done. He opens his shirt, revealing his white and hairless torso. When he bends to pick up the trap he abruptly stops and presses a hand to the small of his back.
‘Put it in the sack,’ he says as he straightens, grey-faced. ‘Or is that against your principles too?’
He stalks off, leaving me to finish up. I lift the trap by the spike. There are bright scratches still from where I tried to prise it open. It spins slowly on the chain, an ugly pendant of bloodstained metal.
I drop it in the sack.
There are traps all over the woods. Each time we fill one of the sacks Arnaud has brought we leave it by the side of the path to collect later. The traps are all well hidden, concealed among tree roots and clusters of grass, even, on one occasion, in a shallow hole skilfully camouflaged with twigs and branches.
Arnaud goes unerringly to each one, locating them without hesitation. The half-full sack bumps against my leg as I follow him to another. A thick growth of grass has sprung up around it, so that only the chain is visible. He searches for a stick to clear it.
‘What’s the point?’ I ask.
‘The point of what?’
I drop the sack of traps to the ground. ‘Of these things.’
‘To keep people out, what do you think?’
‘It didn’t work the other night.’
Arnaud’s cheek muscles bunch. ‘They were lucky.’
‘And you weren’t?’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘You think the police would only have given you a warning if somebody had stepped in one?’
‘You think I’d care?’
‘Then why are we taking them up?’
‘Because I won’t give them the satisfaction of finding them. In a week or two, when this has blown over, I’ll set them again.’ He gives me an odd sideways glance. ‘And if I catch somebody in one, what makes you think they’ll be able to tell the police about it?’
He clears the last of the grass from the trap and gives a short laugh.
‘No need to spring this.’
The remains of a rabbit hang from the trap’s closed jaws. It must have been there for months. The flies and maggots have already done their work, leaving only a desiccated bundle of fur and bones.
Arnaud prods it with his foot.
‘Take it up.’
The morning chill and mist have burned off by the time Arnaud eventually calls a break. The sun drips through the branches, not yet hot but intimating at the heat to come. We stop where a flat-topped rock breaks through the earth to form a natural seat. Leaning the rifle against it, Arnaud takes it himself. I lower myself to the ground, glad of the respite.
‘How many more traps are left?’
‘Plenty more in the woods down by the lake. Why? Getting tired?’
‘No, I’m loving every minute.’
He snorts but doesn’t deign to reply. I try not to think about how long it’ll be before breakfast as Arnaud rummages in his knapsack and brings out a greaseproof-paper-wrapped parcel. Both Lulu and I watch him unwrap it. Inside are two cold chicken breasts. To my surprise he offers one to me.
‘Here.’
I take it before he changes his mind. He rummages in the knapsack again, this time coming out with a plastic bottle of water and a length of bread.
‘The bread’s yesterday’s,’ he says disparagingly as he breaks it in half.
I don’t care. We eat in silence, sharing water from the same bottle, although I notice we both wipe the neck before we drink. I throw occasional scraps to Lulu, who’s convinced herself that she’s starving. Arnaud ignores her.
When he’s finished he takes out his pipe and fills it. I’d join him, but in my rush to get out of the loft I came without my cigarettes.
‘How’s your back?’ I ask.
It’s meant as a peace offering after the food. Arnaud bites on his pipe and stares through the smoke.
‘No better for digging.’
We’re silent after that. Arnaud seems as intransigent as the rock he’s sitting on. I catch him watching me at one point, but he looks away again without speaking. There’s a tension about him that rekindles my earlier paranoia. He picks up the rifle, sights along its length.
‘So, are you enjoying my daughter’s generosity?’
Oh shit, I think, wondering what Gretchen’s said. ‘What do you mean?’
He gives me an irritated glance. He sets down the rifle and fiddles with his pipe. ‘Mathilde. She’s been pampering you like a newborn. Cooking your meals, changing your bandage.’
‘Right. Yes, she’s been … very generous.’
He takes the pipe from his mouth, flicks an invisible mote from the bowl and replaces it. ‘What do you think of her?’
‘I’m not with you.’
‘It’s a simple enough question. What do you think of Mathilde? She’s an attractive woman, no?’
Arnaud’s capable of taking offence no matter what I say, so I opt for the truth. ‘Yes, she is.’
That seems to be what he wants to hear. He pulls on his pipe. ‘It’s been hard on her. Running the house. Taking care of Gretchen when their mother died. Now being left to look after a baby by herself. Not easy.’
I haven’t noticed him trying to make things any easier for her.
‘It hasn’t been any better for me, either, God knows,’ he goes on. ‘Bringing up two daughters. A place like this, a man needs a son. Someone who can work with him, take over eventually. I always hoped Marie would give me a boy, but no. Only girls. I thanked Christ when Michel was born, I can tell you. It’s no joke being surrounded by women.’
Arnaud taps out his pipe on the rock, looking at it instead of me.
‘Still, it’s worse for Mathilde. A good-looking woman, still young. She needs a man. A husband, ideally, but you’ve got to be realistic.’ He purses his lips, still considering the pipe. ‘You understand what I’m saying?’
I tip my head, non-committally.
‘Trouble is, the men around here aren’t worth much. Small minds, that’s all they’ve got. Half of them would screw a cow if they could find a stool to stand on, but when it comes to an unmarried woman with another man’s child …’
His sigh is a shade too theatrical.
‘You’d think they’d have more sense than to let their prejudices blind them. I’m not going to live for ever, and Mathilde’s my eldest. Michel won’t be old enough to take over for years, and there’s no saying I’ll still be around to help him when he does. I’m the first to admit this place needs work, but … Well, it doesn’t take much to see the potential. You understand me?’ he asks, looking at me directly for the first time.
‘I think so.’ I understand, all right. It’s not so much that he’d make such a proposal that shocks me, as that he’d make it to me.
He nods, satisfied. ‘I wouldn’t expect anyone to make up his mind straight away. But, for the right sort of man, it’s worth giving some thought, wouldn’t you say?’
‘What would you call the right sort of man?’ I ask, keeping my voice neutral. But perhaps not as neutral as I intend, because Arnaud gives me a shrewd glance.
‘Somebody who can recognize an opportunity when he sees one,’ he retorts. And then, less tartly, ‘Someone I can trust.’
‘Like you trusted Louis?’
Arnaud’s face closes like a trap. He thrusts his pipe into his pocket and stands up.
‘Come on. We’ve wasted enough time.’
I get wearily to my feet and bend to pick up the sack. The snick of the rifle bolt being slid back is unmistakable in the quiet. I turn to find Arnaud standing with the barrel pointing at me.
I don’t move. Then with relief I see that his attention is on Lulu. She’s staring into the trees, ears cocked.
‘What’s she—?’
‘Shh!’
He motions me to one side. The dog is so tense she’s quivering. Arnaud raises the rifle stock to his shoulder, readying himself.
‘Go.’
The word is little more than a whisper, but Lulu begins moving into the woods, stalking in a slow-motion walk. A little way off she halts, one forepaw poised in the air. I still can’t see anything. Suddenly she hurls herself forward. At the same time two birds burst from the grass ahead of her, wheeling into the air in a clatter of wings.
The crack of Arnaud’s rifle makes me jump. One of the birds tumbles from the sky. There’s another crack. The remaining bird veers away, climbing higher. A third shot sounds, but the bird has already lost itself beyond the higher branches.
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.’