‘Leave you alone? You stay out all night with another man and expect me to just ignore it?’

‘Yes! It’s none of your business!’

Stunned, I stare at her. My anger’s still there, but I know if I give in to it there’ll be no going back. ‘You really mean that?’

‘No. I don’t know.’ Quietly, she starts to cry. ‘I’m sorry, OK?’

She rushes into the bathroom and locks the door. I sit there feeling nothing, absolutely nothing at all.

9

I’M ALREADY UP when Mathilde brings my breakfast next morning, woken by a hangover and the repetitive crowing of a cockerel outside. I drank another bottle of wine with dinner, and whatever else can be said about Château Arnaud, it’s strong. I go down to the outhouse and put my head under the tap, washing away the last vestiges of sleep. Water dripping from my hair, I sit outside the barn in just my jeans, enjoying the early cool on my bare flesh.

It’s a beautiful morning, like every other morning since I arrived here. The sky is an endless blue, not yet burned white by the heat that will come later. On the horizon there’s a dark strip of cloud, but it seems too distant to be threatening.

I flick my foot at the rust-coloured hen which seems intent on pecking around it and look up as I hear Mathilde approach.

‘Good morning,’ she says.

Her face, as ever, gives little away. She sets the tray with my breakfast on the ground beside me. An almost invisible whorl of steam curls up from the coffee, and the bread smells freshly made. The two peeled eggs lie together in the dish like a pair of white buttocks.

‘I made this,’ Mathilde says, producing something she’s been carrying under one arm. ‘For your foot.’

It’s the sole of a rubber boot, from which most of the upper has been cut away except for the heel. Trailing laces hang from holes punched on either side.

‘Right.’ I’m not sure what to say. ‘Thanks.’

‘It’s to protect the bandage. I thought it might help while you work.’ She pushes her hair back. It’s the closest to nervous that I’ve seen her. ‘I have a favour to ask. Gretchen told me you used to teach English.’

‘Only privately,’ I say warily. ‘Not in a proper school.’

‘Would you teach her?’

‘Uh, I’m not sure that’s—’

‘I’d pay you myself,’ she goes on, quickly. ‘Not much. But you wouldn’t have to give formal lessons. Just… while you’re talking to her.’

I want to say no. After yesterday evening I’ve come to the conclusion that the less I have to do with her sister the better. ‘Couldn’t you teach her yourself?’

‘My English isn’t good enough.’ She gives an apologetic shrug. ‘And she doesn’t like me telling her what to do.’

‘What does your father say?’

‘He won’t be a problem.’

Which isn’t quite the same as saying he approves, but Mathilde knows him better than I do. She’s waiting for my answer, and try as I might I can’t think of a good excuse to refuse.

‘I suppose I could give her a few lessons…’

Mathilde’s smile is an altogether more sober thing than her sister’s, but while it lasts it makes her look years younger. ‘Thank you.’

I watch her walk back to the courtyard, then examine the shoe. It smells of old rubber and probably only took a few minutes to make. Still, I’m touched: I can’t remember the last time anyone did anything for me. And it does make life easier. When I put it on after breakfast I find I can actually set my foot down, even put enough weight on it to take a couple of hobbling steps.

On the scaffolding it gives me a feeling of stability and confidence I haven’t had before. Taking up the hammer, I do my best to ignore my headache, which forms a syncopated throb with each blow, hoping the exertion will help me to sweat out my hangover. The blisters on my palm are sore but I can’t bring myself to wear the sweat-stained gloves that were in the overall pockets.

Gradually, the stiffness begins to ease out of my muscles. I finish off the area I’ve been working on and start on the wall by the unshuttered bedroom window. Several stones underneath the gutter are loose, and there’s nothing for it but to take them out altogether. Before I know it there’s a hole in the wall big enough to crawl into, exposing the rough internal stonework underneath. I’m slightly awed by the damage I’ve caused, uncomfortably aware that I don’t really know what I’m doing.

But there’s still something satisfying about the focused violence of hammer and chisel. I pound away, fragments of mortar stinging my face like shrapnel. It doesn’t even hurt so much when I hit my hand any more. The flesh and bone have become deadened, numbed by repeated blows. It’s only when I stop long enough for it to start to recover that I can feel it.

I’m soon lost in the hammer’s rhythm. My world shrinks to a thin strip of wall above the bedroom window, so that I’m slow to react when something inside the room catches my eye. Then it comes again, a flicker at the edge of my vision. I look up and see a face on the other side of the dusty glass.

‘Jesus!’