Chapter 9

Edouard Cavaillon was finished. His vitality had gone. Forty-five years of loveless marriage to a woman he didn’t even like, for it to end like this? Was it worth it?
Her rigid abhorrence of all things physical had converted his once genuine desire into the trappings of a satyr. Even the marriage was arranged at “the right time” to get the unpleasantness out of the way as quickly as possible. But the blood and brutish thrusting of the first night were still a shock and the matrimonial essentials discharged with unconcealed aversion.
After six years of tetanic, sheet-gripping duty, she finally conceived, and that was that. By then, Edouard was as relieved as Georgette.
And now, after five years of relentless silence, dead-ends and dead-letters, a dead body. What a wasted life. All that remained was to wait for the end.
The only point he remained firm on was the boy. No orphanage, no adoption. That, at least, was out of the question. He had the same dark eyes as Béatrice. He was all that remained of her.
Georgette knew his weaknesses, at work he might rule, but at home it was her. All right, the boy stays, but under my conditions.

Mme Cavaillon looked at Guy with the sneer of blank destruction reserved for cockroaches, something filthy to be squashed underfoot. Guy, the “illegitimate bastard”, was to learn the deep meaning of the word “disgusting”.
The world of bludgeoned emotions and confusion was left behind, the kaleidoscope insecurity was over. Now, there was no doubt, he was purely and simply despicable.

He called his grandparents Monsieur and Madame. He thanked them in his prayers for feeding and clothing him, for taking him in and giving him shelter. He was lucky, he didn’t realise how lucky he was.
He learned to be good: not to cry, not to make any noise, not to be wilful, disobedient or answer back, not to run, play or smile, and never to laugh out loud. “Sorrow is better than laughter: for by the sadness of the countenance the heart is made better”; Ecclesiastes 7:3.
In a sense, life became more straightforward. His murdered soul expressed nothing. Chest out, shoulders back, he locked himself in, felt nothing, desired nothing and got nothing in exchange.
In the woods, alone, he put stones into the little cawing beaks of nestlings, bit their heads off or poked their eyes out with sticks. He stole eggs and smashed them on rocks, he shook branches and watched the helpless chicks plummet to the ground.
In the woods, he lived by himself, talking to no-one. He was not allowed to play with other children.

For three years, Georgette choked on shame: the Cavaillon bastard. The solution was better for all. He was sent back to England to boarding-school.
School was a release. The bullying and beating were trivial compared to what he was used to, and when they learned the slow and calculated revenge he was capable of, it stopped.
At the beginning, his social isolation left him way behind the others. Later, he became average. By senior school, he discovered the superiority the top boys gained over others and realised the power of knowledge, and once or twice came top, then learned the even greater value of anonymity.
He seemed average in the rifle range too. His shots were wide off the mark. But never random. If he hit somewhere outside the target, it was because that was where he aimed: 7 o’clock, four-fifths from centre.
Above all, school meant being away from his grandmother. Holidays were hell, and punishment a part of life. She was inventive, but the only one with any lasting effect was the crop. Pain was real.
These days, he almost lived in the woods, it suited both of them. He spent his time hunting, tracking, trapping, and using his catapult to shoot animals - squirrels, hares, larks, wood pigeon - more or less anything that moved. He also learnt the art of hiding, and silence.
But he had to be back by five, and it was now seven o’clock.

He knew what was coming. Up in his tree-house, he concocted wild, sixteen-year-old dreams of revenge.
“I’ll bloody show her…”
But there was nothing he could show her. She always had the upper hand.
Night came and with it Guy’s resolve. He was in for a serious thrashing so he might as well make it worthwhile.
Next morning, he realised he was in deep trouble. He’d never stayed out all night. This meant... God knows what it meant. And his mind was buffeted between going back immediately and taking the consequences, or staying a bit longer. Since he didn’t make a decision, he stayed, first a second night, then a third. With each morning came the increasingly terrifying prospect of what was waiting for him when he went back. He no longer knew what to do.
When he woke on the fourth morning, the forest was strangely quiet, and the air had an unusual quality about it. Aptly, a storm was brewing. Through the morning, the wind began to blow in sudden sharp gusts, then tailed off, gaining strength each time. By mid-afternoon, it was a full-blown gale. All around him, trees were straining and complaining. Cracks split the air as branches were ripped from trunks. The forest was a cacophony of groaning wood. Pine cones hit him and the wind was charged with needles. The noise was getting louder and louder. As the evening sun disappeared into a purple-black cloud of thunder, the first bolt of lightening exploded. Guy was exhilarated. This was life: the elements screaming out their hatred of humanity. And he joined in, standing up and gripping hard onto the branches, he emptied his lungs in victorious retaliation through a thick cloak of noise that hid his own.
He was ready to go home now. He was ready for anything. Just let her try. Just let her lay one finger on him.
A familiar noise struck his ears: a dog, very far away. His mind spun to attention. Another bark. A few minutes later, everything was clear. It had to be a search-party. He smiled to himself. “So, they want to play follow-my-leader, do they? Well, why not a little bit of blindman’s buff?”
From the sound of the barking, he estimated about ten to twenty minutes head start. He slithered down the tree and headed off towards the Vieille Gemmière. It meant crossing the main road but he could follow the Mouinatéou where it flowed under the bridge. The water would snooker them. He knew all the rivers and ditches. He could lose them easily.
At last he reached the house. Except for a light in the front room, it was in total darkness. He slipped round the back and shimmied up the drain-pipe.
The shutters were locked. He sometimes wondered whether she knew about his escape route. It wouldn’t surprise him: she was a good card-player and always kept a nice little trump till the end to trounce her opponents. It wouldn’t surprise him at all. Time to find a new one. Still, locking the shutter just made opening the window a bit more difficult. It used to be easy, but he was growing fast. As he forced his fingers through the slats, he caught a knuckle on the wood and ripped a piece of skin. He swore.
The latch gave and he pulled his hand out. His finger was bleeding copious red drops; he put it in his mouth and sucked in the warm blood. Suddenly, the wind tore the shutter away and crashed it against the wall. His heart thudded. Lowering himself onto the narrow ledge, he stopped and listened, straining his ears, ready to jump to the garden and run like hell. Getting caught up here would not be a good idea. A few minutes passed and nothing happened, but nobody could have heard anyway, not with the wind hurtling through the trees in ever-increasing blasts as the storm grew in fury.
He climbed in through the open window and tiptoed to the bathroom. There, he slowly turned the tap and rinsed his finger in cold running water. Red, then pink drops dripped onto the white china sink. Little by little, they ceased. He waited a while to make doubly sure, then stole up to bed with a smug expression on his face.

In the front room, his grandmother’s hand dropped at last. Her sharp hearing had kept her aware of Guy’s comings and goings for years.
“Not a word!” she hissed.
“But Georgette, we’ve got to warn the hunters out looking for him.”
“Not a word, I said. I’ll deal with it in the morning.”
“In the mor...?”
Georgette glared at him with her icy stare. Edouard was too old to fight.
Erect in her stiff-backed wooden chair, she sat and meditated. A nice little chat with him would be in order, early in the morning. Outside, a branch snapped in the howling wind and she thought about the local hunters searching the woods for the boy. When they learned he’d crept back home and spent the night snug in bed without even giving a sign of life to his poor, long-suffering guardians, there would be hell to pay.
The storm increased in tempo. On the radio, the weather report quietly droned out its bulletin: force eight, gusting nine. They would be delighted about this little wild-goose chase.
Guy slept soundly, exhausted from his escapade; Georgette sat and read Deuteronomy; Edouard smoked his pipe and fretted.

He was awakened by a leather fly-swatter slapped across his cheek.
“Where do you think you’ve been?”
“I got lost...”
“Don’t you lie to me, boy. And how long have you been lying there while we’ve been worried sick?”
“I got back a little while ago and didn’t want to disturb you.”
“Disturb us, disturb us!” she screamed, spitting out the words, “do you seriously think that you disappearing for three whole days and having the whole town scouring the countryside for you is not disturbing? Well? Answer me, boy.”
“I...” and he pulled the covers up for protection.
“I thought as much. Show me your hand.” Lamely, Guy extended his right hand. In the night, the wound had re-opened, and clotted blood clung to his knuckle.
“So you got back ‘a little while ago’ did you?”
He replied with an unsteady ‘yes’.
She stood there stiff and unbending as a gibbet.
“Then perhaps you would be good enough to explain why there happen to be perfectly dry bloodstains on the bathroom floor?”
Guy said nothing.
“Will you answer me. I asked you a question.”
“Don’t know.”
“Don’t know! Don’t know!” she screamed. “How dare you ‘don’t know’ me. How dare you be so impudent. Do you realise that over thirty people have spent all night in the worst storm in living memory looking for you, and you, you miserable, you evil child, have the downright cheek to say ‘don’t know’! Get up immediately and go straight down to the scullery.” ¶ 1:58 AM