there is a tiny flowerbed, a bright splash of colour amongst the more practical vegetables. Kneeling down, she begins tugging up the weeds growing between them. A soft sound drifts up to me and I realize she’s humming to herself. Something slow and melodic; I don’t know the tune.
I quietly move away. Back around the front of the house, the sun is blinding. At this time of day there’s no shade on the scaffold, and my skin is already prickling where it’s uncovered. I check my watch and see it’s past noon; if I stay up here any longer I’ll fry. The metal scaffolding poles burn my hands as I transfer myself onto the ladder and slowly make my way down. As I reach the bottom Mathilde comes around the corner of the house, wiping her hands on a cloth.
‘You’ve taken a look?’ she asks. The sadness I saw on her face in the garden has gone, concealed behind the usual calm. ‘What do you think?’
‘It’s, uh, a bigger job than I thought.’
Mathilde looks up at the scaffold, shielding her eyes from the sun as Gretchen did earlier. In the sun her hair isn’t so very much darker than her sister’s. It just looks as though all the light’s been taken from it.
‘You don’t have to start just yet. Not if you don’t feel up to it.’
It isn’t my health that worries me. Trying to keep my weight off my foot isn’t easy, and the climb down has set it throbbing again. But it’s bearable, and anything’s better than inactivity.
I shrug. ‘Only one way to find out.’
‘I’ll show you where everything is.’
She goes to the doorway where Arnaud confronted me a few days earlier. The warped door’s hinges creak as she opens it, letting light into what I now see is a small, windowless storeroom. A wave of cold, damp air rolls out from it, and as my eyes adjust I make out an untidy sprawl of building equipment with bags of sand and cement. Like the platform at the top of the scaffold, there’s a touch of the
Marie Celeste
about the way everything’s been left. A trail of cement spills from a slash in a paper sack in which a trowel still stands, while a spade protrudes from a mound of rock-hard mortar like a builder’s Excalibur. Judging by the cobwebs clinging to it all, nothing in here has been disturbed in months.
There’s a groan from the hinges as the door starts to swing shut behind us, cutting off the light. I turn to stop it, and jump as I see someone standing there. But it’s only a pair of overalls hanging from a nail. At least Mathilde hasn’t noticed my nerves. She stands to one side of the doorway, as though reluctant to come any further.
‘Everything should be in here. There’s cement and sand, and a tap for water. Use whatever you need.’
I look at the mess in the small room. ‘Was your father doing the work before?’
‘No, a local man.’
Whoever he was, he left in a hurry. I give the spade handle a tug. It quivers but doesn’t budge, stuck fast in the solidified mortar.
‘Why didn’t he finish?’
‘There was a disagreement.’
She doesn’t enlarge. I go to examine the cement. Damp has made the grey powder from the split bag clump together, and when I prod the unopened bags they’re hard as stone.
‘I’ll need more cement.’
Mathilde’s standing with her arms wrapped tightly across her chest. ‘Do you need it straight away? Isn’t there something else you can be doing?’
I consider the piled bags, knowing I’m just stalling for time. ‘I suppose I can hack out more of the old mortar …’
‘Fine,’ she says, and goes back out into the courtyard.
I take a last look around the dark room with its abandoned tools, then follow her into the sunlight. Mathilde is waiting in the courtyard, and though her face is as hard to read as ever she looks pale.
‘Everything OK?’ I ask.
‘Of course.’ Her hand goes to her hair, absently tucking it back. ‘Is there anything else you need for now?’
‘Well, I’m out of cigarettes. Is there somewhere nearby I
I quietly move away. Back around the front of the house, the sun is blinding. At this time of day there’s no shade on the scaffold, and my skin is already prickling where it’s uncovered. I check my watch and see it’s past noon; if I stay up here any longer I’ll fry. The metal scaffolding poles burn my hands as I transfer myself onto the ladder and slowly make my way down. As I reach the bottom Mathilde comes around the corner of the house, wiping her hands on a cloth.
‘You’ve taken a look?’ she asks. The sadness I saw on her face in the garden has gone, concealed behind the usual calm. ‘What do you think?’
‘It’s, uh, a bigger job than I thought.’
Mathilde looks up at the scaffold, shielding her eyes from the sun as Gretchen did earlier. In the sun her hair isn’t so very much darker than her sister’s. It just looks as though all the light’s been taken from it.
‘You don’t have to start just yet. Not if you don’t feel up to it.’
It isn’t my health that worries me. Trying to keep my weight off my foot isn’t easy, and the climb down has set it throbbing again. But it’s bearable, and anything’s better than inactivity.
I shrug. ‘Only one way to find out.’
‘I’ll show you where everything is.’
She goes to the doorway where Arnaud confronted me a few days earlier. The warped door’s hinges creak as she opens it, letting light into what I now see is a small, windowless storeroom. A wave of cold, damp air rolls out from it, and as my eyes adjust I make out an untidy sprawl of building equipment with bags of sand and cement. Like the platform at the top of the scaffold, there’s a touch of the
Marie Celeste
about the way everything’s been left. A trail of cement spills from a slash in a paper sack in which a trowel still stands, while a spade protrudes from a mound of rock-hard mortar like a builder’s Excalibur. Judging by the cobwebs clinging to it all, nothing in here has been disturbed in months.
There’s a groan from the hinges as the door starts to swing shut behind us, cutting off the light. I turn to stop it, and jump as I see someone standing there. But it’s only a pair of overalls hanging from a nail. At least Mathilde hasn’t noticed my nerves. She stands to one side of the doorway, as though reluctant to come any further.
‘Everything should be in here. There’s cement and sand, and a tap for water. Use whatever you need.’
I look at the mess in the small room. ‘Was your father doing the work before?’
‘No, a local man.’
Whoever he was, he left in a hurry. I give the spade handle a tug. It quivers but doesn’t budge, stuck fast in the solidified mortar.
‘Why didn’t he finish?’
‘There was a disagreement.’
She doesn’t enlarge. I go to examine the cement. Damp has made the grey powder from the split bag clump together, and when I prod the unopened bags they’re hard as stone.
‘I’ll need more cement.’
Mathilde’s standing with her arms wrapped tightly across her chest. ‘Do you need it straight away? Isn’t there something else you can be doing?’
I consider the piled bags, knowing I’m just stalling for time. ‘I suppose I can hack out more of the old mortar …’
‘Fine,’ she says, and goes back out into the courtyard.
I take a last look around the dark room with its abandoned tools, then follow her into the sunlight. Mathilde is waiting in the courtyard, and though her face is as hard to read as ever she looks pale.
‘Everything OK?’ I ask.
‘Of course.’ Her hand goes to her hair, absently tucking it back. ‘Is there anything else you need for now?’
‘Well, I’m out of cigarettes. Is there somewhere nearby I
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