‘So, they will be a while, and, when they have finished eating, they will not be able to move for even longer.’
‘OK,’ Orla replied. ‘So where are we going?’
‘Somewhere you can take photos.’
28
They had got in Jacques’s truck and he had driven away from the village in the opposite direction to his home, a route Orla hadn’t travelled before. Not that the scenery was immediately any different to the area around Saint-Chambéry but, as the minutes ticked by, there were slight changes. It was like they were leaving the harsh ruggedness of the mountainous backdrop and making way for subtler terrain – flatter ground, trees that didn’t look like they reached up to the clouds, a hint of a valley to come. Yet it was still such a winter wonderland, no hint of greenery on the ground, just more ice and snow, as beautiful as it was slightly hostile.
Within fifteen minutes Jacques was pulling off the road and coming to a stop next to a wide-open space, like a forest clearing. There was literally nothing around and, as she reached to undo her seat belt, Orla wondered what exactly she was going to be taking photos of.
‘We are here!’ Jacques announced as though he had brought her to the greatest show on earth. He had spread has arms wide, as much as the confines of his cab would allow and it only highlighted how little there was.
‘Is it an event?’ Orla asked. ‘Is a marching band going to appear every hour on the hour?’
‘That would impress you?’ he asked, opening the door of the truck.
‘It depends on the horn section.’
Why had she said that? Immediately her cheeks flooded with colour as she rooted around in her brain for something else to say to fill the quiet.
‘Make sure your coat is fastened,’ Jacques said, jumping down. ‘It is usually five degrees cooler here than near Saint-Chambéry.’
‘What? You’ve brought me somewhere colder?’
He slammed the door shut and Orla was left tugging at the zip of her coat and making sure the overlapping poppers were also done up before she got out.
Her feet touched down onto snow that was hard, a layer of crunchiness rather than soft and powdery. She had been to many snowy landscapes but the terrain around this French mountain village seemed to have a whole micro-climate all of its own.
Jacques was getting equipment out of the back of his truck. Was that a spear? A memory washed over her the second he pulled a long metal device that looked like a giant screw from under the tarpaulin. Then he began pacing, deliberately, like he was counting, spear in one hand, screw implement in the other. She rushed to catch up.
‘Ice fishing,’ she said, finally reaching him.
‘Gerard and I take it in turns to set traps,’ he answered.
‘You’re counting to find them?’
‘Yes… forty-eight, forty-nine…’
‘What kind of fish do you get here?’ she continued.
‘Fifty, fifty-one… all kinds.’
‘Yes, but what kinds?’
‘Orla,’ Jacques said, stopping. ‘I will answer your questions, but if you keep talking to me when I am trying to count, I will not be able to find the traps.’
‘Sorry.’
She walked bedside him, silently, wondering just how far away these traps were and how different the paces of Gerard and longer-limbed Jacques had to be and, if that was the case, did they have a different method of counting?
‘OK,’ Jacques said. ‘We are here.’ He stuck the spear into the snow. ‘Now we drill.’
‘I know how it works,’ Orla told him. ‘And I also know it’s hard to work that drill.’
‘It is all about the technique.’
‘It’s a two-person job.’
