‘Two Pernods. And have the other man bring them. The young one with the glossy hair.’
‘Senhora,’ he said and retreated.
Claudine turned to me with a little smile. I rolled my eyes, amused despite myself, and turned my face into the sun. She reached into her bag for a compact and a lipstick and preened when the young waiter set the sweating glasses on the table. Her long fingers were pale against the brown of his hand.
‘Obrigada,’ she purred.
‘Would you like me to go for a walk?’
‘Why on earth would you do that, Solange?’
The waiter seized the opportunity to retreat.
‘What is wrong with you, Claudine?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘This mood you’re in. I don’t know what’s happened, but something’s wrong.’
She looked out to sea, then down at her hands, as if she wasn’t sure if she should tell me anything, although she clearly wanted to. I lit a cigarette and waited for her to make up her mind.
‘Christophe,’ she sighed.
‘What about him?’
‘I don’t know. Last night he left the casino to meet Hans and Haydn for a late drink.’
Hans? Hans Bendixen? Was that what Christophe was involved in?
Claudine twisted her wedding band around her finger.
‘He came back at dawn.’
She stared out to sea. Then her expression changed; her eyes widened and her body went rigid. She took three fast steps to the terrace’s railing. Her face was leeched of colour and she screamed.
‘Bodies!’
The afternoon crowd surged to the railing to see the grisly tide. Some remained on the terrace sipping their cocktails, and for a moment, I was back in London. I was back in London and my friend Kat Christie was prying a flimsy piece of paper from my fist, reading aloud.
‘Dear Mrs de Mornay, We are sorry to inform you that your husband’s frigate came under heavy attack by German U-boats off the coast of Greenland . . .’
‘Solange?’ Claudine shook my arm, her brow furrowing. She repeated my name, but it was Kat’s voice I heard.
‘It badly damaged a German submarine, before taking a torpedo. I regret to tell you, Mrs de Mornay, that there were no survivors. Our condolences on your husband’s death. He had an exemplary record and was a hero; much loved by his crew . . .’
I pushed on to the beach. In subarctic waters, Philip didn’t have a chance, but these men . . . maybe they had a chance. The heels of my sandals caught on the stones, and I ripped them off, leaving them as they lay. Hot sand burnt my feet, and along with the bodies, the tide brought in shards of metal and wood, clothing and life jackets.
‘English,’ a low voice confirmed in a nasal American accent as he and two other men dragged a body out of the water. The sailor’s uniform was tattered, his fair hair crusted with sand and seaweed. The tip of his nose was missing and wide eyes stared sightless at the sky.
Where the breakwater tamed the tide near a stone villa, an old man struggled to pull a second body from the sea. Determined to help, I threw myself into the surf, ignoring the tide dragging at my skirt and the rocks slicing my feet. I tried to grab an arm and missed. Where his arm should have been was nothing but algae and salt water.
‘Tubarão,’ the old man said. ‘Shark.’
More a blast than a shark, I guessed, gripping the man’s belt. Buffeted by the tide, we dragged the dead sailor on to the shore. He was also missing his left leg from the knee down. There was no need to check a pulse.
‘Morto.’
Breathing hard, the old man fell to his knees, his gnarled fingers gentle as he closed the sailor’s eyes. He crossed himself and said a prayer, the Latin strangely comforting. He bowed to me and stumbled down the beach.
Instead of the dead sailor’s sandy hair, I saw Philip’s dark curls. I brushed a lock of hair from his forehead and sat beside him. I would keep him company until someone came with a stretcher to take him away.
‘I’m sorry,’ I whispered, unsure if I was apologising to this nameless man or to Philip for that last argument, punctuated by slamming doors and shattered crystal. Had another woman sat by Philip’s body and hoped he’d left home with a sweetheart’s kiss on his lips?
‘I think, senhora, that these are yours.’
I shielded my eyes against the blinding sun. A man held my sandals out to me; put them on the sand when I didn’t move.
‘It was very brave, what you did.’
His English was accented and I recognised the waiter from the Albatroz. Claudine still stood on the terrace, watching me. Had she sent him? Asked him to speak to me in English? Or was it his own initiative? I cocked my head as if I hadn’t understood his words. When he repeated them in French, I shrugged.
‘Anyone would have done the same.’
‘No, senhora. Not everyone would go in the water after a dead English sailor.’
He had noticed the dead men’s uniforms. There was no point in pretending I hadn’t.
‘He’s still a man, regardless of what uniform he wears.’
For a moment his eyes mirrored my own exhaustion.
‘You are a good woman, senhora.’
He left me alone with my memories, and a silent reminder not to trust anyone, no matter how innocent they seemed. I dug my feet into the wet sand, pushing against the mud, reality, and maybe my own nature, wondering what the devil I was doing here.
I expelled a deep sigh and glanced again at the terrace. There was no sign of Claudine, but in her place, watching me, was the man I’d seen sweeping away the dead blossoms near my villa.
Chapter Sixteen
Sadness turned to irrational anger at the human cost of war. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the dead English sailor. I paced my villa, dosed myself with
