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“A mental health problem. I went fully batshit crazy.”
He made the universal screwing motion with his forefinger at his temple. At a loss how to respond, I said nothing, and he took another drink from the bottle, this time gulping it down. He nodded to himself. “I think my mother would have really enjoyed it here. On the island. She loved the ocean and was interested in environmental issues. But I’ll never know for sure.”
Again, that conversational style, as though he’d practised, or was reciting learned lines. It sounded fake, hollow. Empty. His eyes were closed again, his face still drained of colour and lightly sheened with moisture. Physically, Charles and I shared the same rough-hewn plank of wood; emotionally he was God knew where—not somewhere I’d be keen to visit from the look of him, and I wondered how many times he’d explained his illness to be able to relate it like this.
“She passed away nine months, one week and four days ago. Suicide. I was an only child and my father died young, so we were very close. That French teen, the boy with his mum, listening to your talk. They reminded me of how close I was with her. And I… I wasn’t prepared for it.”
Once more lifting the bottle to his lips, he drained most of the remainder in noisy swallows. “Sorry.” He wiped his hand across his mouth. “It’s nearly all gone. My pills leave me with a horrible taste.”
“That’s okay. Have all of it. There’s plenty more in the cool box.”
The next sip he took was more measured. Holding the bottle to his cheek again, he blew out a long breath. “Sorry, you’re probably wondering why I’m telling you this. It’s old news. And I’m not a teenage boy. I guess it just suddenly hit me hard and yes, I haven’t been well. My… er… illness has put me a little out of whack. Sorry.”
“Hey, no need to apologise. Nine months isn’t so long ago. It’s normal for you to still be upset about it. Does it matter how old you are? My mother still cries every time she hears a particular sentimental old song on the radio, because it reminds her of her own mother, who died four years ago. We all do it.”
Was I little crazy myself? Possibly, because from where I sat, his unexpected frankness and vulnerability only added to his attractiveness. Jerome and Nico always said my taste in men was suspect. But if anything, I wanted to hear more.
“I… um… missed your entire talk,” he carried on. “And not because it was dull. I expect it was far from it.”
I shrugged. My bloody talk. As if that mattered. “It’s at the same time and it’s the same talk every day. Or I can give you a private one. Any time.”
“I should go.” His voice cracked, and he made as if to move then sagged back again. “I’m keeping you from your work.”
I had a horrible feeling if he stood, he might fall flat on his face. He’d shielded his eyes with his sunglasses again, so I had no way of knowing if his damp cheeks were because of the bottle or tears. “Maybe you shouldn’t be on your own today. Too much time alone isn’t good for anyone. Why don’t you stay here in the shade awhile, until you feel better? Watch me work.”
Surprisingly, he did. Not because my offer had been too good to refuse; more likely that he couldn’t face his own company. With frequent glances towards him, I resumed raking a section nearby, dragging the coarse salt from the shallow bed. I had no idea if his eyes were open or closed. I hoped he was feeling better and wished I’d known the right words to comfort him. And ouais, when he removed his shades a little later so I knew he was watching, I may have showed off a little, but it would have been easy to blame the heat for the necessity of discarding my T-shirt. After almost an hour, I looked over and he’d gone.
The informal gathering at the cooperative teetered on the cusp of descending into an informal brawl. Without conducting a head count, most of the guys had pitched up—most of the ones with loud voices and strong opinions anyhow. The shop area and offices weren’t big enough to hold us, so we spilled over into the salt storage hangar, echoey and bare seeing as our salt yields were still drying in huge mounds out on the marshes.
Jerome and I leaned against a wall at the back, becoming more and more despairing, as one of his father’s friends, who had already handed his tile over to his nephew, threw in his tuppence worth. As if his opinion counted for anything! Oh, fucking merde. We had twelve weeks remaining before the actual vote; it might as well be twelve months, because I couldn’t see how any of us could agree on anything.
“The guy from Selco’s finance department who came to talk to us was very approachable,” kicked off Claude, one of Jerome’s father’s gang. As if that was a strong basis for making sound business decisions. “Very friendly,” he added.
“If you need a friend, Claude, then buy yourself a dog!” piped up Jerome, nailing his colours to the mast and guaranteeing a major bust-up with his father later. Frankly, I didn’t know how the two ever managed to work side by side. They were as different as day and night. “He’s not your friend, he’s been on marketing courses to learn how to speak to you like that!”
“C’est vrai?” Is that true?
Putain, this group were dumb. “Of course it’s true!”
“They have promised they aren’t going to change the packaging. They won’t put the Selco logo on it. So it will still be our island salt!”
“For the next two years, yes,” answered a weary voice. “Read the small print.”
An ally. Bruno, from over in Ars. I didn’t know him very well, he kept himself to himself. But he was older, which worked in our favour. “And then what?” he continued, “It will be blended with everyone else’s.”
“Who cares? We’ll know it’s our salt even if no one else does. Think of the money!”
I knew that voice. Michel’s cousin, Frederic, his flinty old eyes lit up like sparklers. Skint again, most likely. Every sou he earned was handed across the counter of the PMU to bet on the horses.
“It’s impossible to compete against these big companies. Impossible! We’ll just be staving off the inevitable!”
I couldn’t even see to whom that voice of doom belonged, but it brought with it a fresh round of head-nodding. And maybe the guy had a point. I ground my teeth, itching to say something but not wanting to be just another dissenting inarticulate voice. Bruno was rolling his eyes and Jerome cursing, while his dad, Michel, had folded his arms across his broad chest, pleased as punch. Another one of his cronies added his opinions to the mix, telling everyone how we could all afford new tractors with the first pay-out, how we could pay off the huge loan we’d taken to modernise the very building we were now arguing in. Men were scratching their heads, mumbling to each other, stealing peeks at watches and phones. Wanting their dinner. This unstructured meeting was pointless. We were spinning in circles.
Putain de merde. I’d had enough. Itchy and sweaty from a day on the rake, I was hungry too, and irritable with it. And I needed to get back to check on Papi, because almost all the folk who I relied on to keep an eye out for him were here. People had started to talk over each other. Some of these guys had knocked off early for a post-work drink before the meeting and it showed. If the Selco bigwigs were spying on us and had any sense, they’d run a mile before throwing their money at this bunch of illiterate, unintelligent ouvriers. All our problems would be over. Or perhaps this dissent and disharmony was exactly what they wanted, and we were playing into their hands.
“Listen! We need to organise ourselves before we even think about debating this damn thing,” piped up a confident, assertive fellow from the back. The tone of a man who sounded as if he knew what he was talking about. A bold voice, authoritative even. And he’d yelled loud enough for every other man in the room to pause and turn and stare. Oh, fucking merde. It was my voice. They were all fucking staring at me.
A Mexican wave of raised eyebrows rippled around the stunned silence as a few folks stood back to give me space. Next to me, Jerome’s mouth hung open, like he was unsure whether to piss himself laughing or initiate a round of applause. A few men with no such qualms started sniggering.
