‘Ah.’
‘What’s your name, then?’
‘Jean.’
All this time, she was unloading things from her baskets: two overalls, a packet of noodles, a few tins of sardines, a reel of black cotton, some cooked meats wrapped in greasy paper. The old man came back with the jug full of ice-cold white wine.
‘Why don’t you sit down? You want to go to Montluçon?’
‘Doesn’t much matter.’
‘To work in a factory, then?’
She had shovelled more coal into the stove and poured water into a saucepan.
‘Do you know how to fix an artificial incubator?’
‘I think I could work it out.’
‘Wait till I feed the chickens. Maybe we can come to some arrangement.’
She sat down to take off her shoes and put on black clogs. The pink petticoat, a bright shade of pink with a blue sheen, was still hanging below her hem, and it was impossible not to stare at the silky mark, like fur, on her cheek.
‘Have a drink, why don’t you? And look at the old goat, he doesn’t dare help himself because I surprised him with that little so-and-so, Félicie.’
She poured out a glass for him. The old man was tall and thin, his cheeks covered in grey stubble, his eyes red-rimmed.
‘Yes, drink away, Couderc!’ she shouted in his ear. ‘But if you want any hanky-panky, you’ll have to wait for it now.’
How many times had she been round the kitchen? And yet not a single movement was wasted. The two slices of ham had been put in a cupboard. Water was heating on the stove. The fire, banked up again, was burning. All the provisions she had brought had been stowed away, and now out she went with a basket full of grain.
‘Chicky, chicky …’
He could see her in the sun by the wagon, leaning against its shafts, surrounded by at least a hundred chickens, all white, and behind them a combination of ducks, geese and turkeys.
‘Come on, my little ones, chicky, chicky!’
She threw the grain out in handfuls, like a sower, but did not forget Jean, still standing in the doorway.
It was hot. The sun was so high that there was hardly any shade. The old man was sitting in his corner by the fireplace, staring at the floor.
Beyond the garden gate, Jean could see a narrow barge, brightly painted like a toy boat, pulled by a donkey and gliding slowly along the canal. The canal was higher than the farmyard, and it was odd to see a boat at eye level. A little girl with flaxen hair and a red dress was running along the deck. A woman stood knitting, guiding the tiller with her hip.
‘You’ll eat something with us? Saturdays, I don’t put on much because of the market. Just look at that old fellow and tell me if he isn’t feeling sorry for himself.’
She laid the table. Heavy crockery with flower patterns, thick glasses without stems. She opened a tin of sardines. There was also brawn and slices of sausage.
‘Want an omelette?’
‘Yes.’
She was amazed. She had thought he would refuse, out of politeness, and she smiled to herself.
The old man came up to the table and took his knife from his pocket. Inside the glass case of the clock, a large copper disc swung slowly to and fro. The cat had jumped up on to Jean’s knees and was already purring.
‘Just throw him down if he bothers you. So you’re French, are you? I won’t ask where you’re from. Do you like your omelette runny?’
She followed the direction of his eyes and saw that his attention had been taken by an enlarged photograph, a soldier in the uniform of the disciplinary Africa Battalion.
‘That’s René, my son,’ she said.
She wasn’t ashamed that he was in a punitive unit. On the contrary. She looked at Jean as if to say:
‘You see, I understand.’
They ate. The old man was of no importance. The light came on one side from a small window overlooking the path, and more brightly from the other direction, through the doorway leading to the yard.
‘I wondered if you’d be going all the way to Montluçon.’
‘So did I.’
‘See, I’m all on my own here. Couderc …’
She felt the need to explain.
‘This old fellow here, that’s Couderc. He’s my late husband’s father. Bad as each other, those two. Like I said, he can just about manage taking our two cows out to graze and fixing up a few things round the house. And something else too, the old goat. See the look on his face? Some people think he can hear more than he lets on, but I know that isn’t true.’
And she shouted:
