‘Yes, Claire Dudley,’ she said, shaking his hand. ‘Pleased to meet you, Professor Marron.’
The two men introduced themselves and talked about France, while Claire and Eddie said goodbye. Claire put her arms round her friend. ‘See you in a couple of weeks.’
‘Poor George. He will get over me, won’t he?’ Eddie giggled.
‘You’re incorrigible,’ Claire said, her arms still round her friend.
‘Absence also makes the heart wander,’ Eddie whispered.
‘Enjoy Newcastle,’ Claire said, hitching the strap of her gas mask further onto her shoulder, ‘and keep your twilights on.’
‘You too. I mean enjoy Culler-thingy, whatever it’s called’
‘Did you sleep well, Miss Dudley?’ Professor Marron asked, when Claire came down for breakfast the next morning.
‘Yes thank you, Professor.’ She looked at the Marron siblings, who had empty plates in front of them. ‘I hope I’m not late.’
‘Not at all. Mélanie, Éric, this is Miss Dudley. Is Miss Dudley the correct way to address you, or would you prefer Aircraftwoman Dudley?’
‘I’d prefer Claire. Miss Dudley sounds so stuffy, and I don’t intend to wear my uniform until I go back to RAF Morecambe. I’m pleased to meet you Mélanie, Éric.’ Both children said hello with welcoming smiles.
Professor Marron poured coffee into Claire’s cup and Éric passed her a dish of croissants.
‘Butter?’ The professor’s ten-year-old daughter handed Claire the butter dish.
‘Thank you, Mélanie.’
‘Why are you speaking English? Papa said we are only to speak French while you are here.’
Mélanie was bright, forward too. ‘You are quite right. From this minute I will only speak French, d’accord?’
‘Okay.’ Mélanie put her hand up to her mouth and giggled. ‘I mean, très bien.’
‘I think you and I are going to get on well, Mélanie,’ Claire said.
‘You know Claire is a French name?’
‘Yes. I don’t know why my parents chose it. I don’t think we have any French connections.’
‘You should ask them.’
‘That is a good idea, Mélanie, I shall.’
That night when chatter-box Mélanie had gone up to bed, Claire asked Professor Marron if she could see the library.
‘But of course. Are you looking for a specific book?’
‘No. I’d like to browse, if that’s all right.’ Claire pushed open the heavy panelled door and breathed in the smell of polished wood, old books and leather. She looked around. It reminded her of the library at Foxden Hall, where her father had been head groom before the war, and where her sister Bess, with a team of land girls, was turning the estate into arable land. Foxden Hall’s library was considerably bigger. It had one of the largest collections of rare books in the country. The Professor’s bookshelves held fewer books, but many were as rare and beautiful as those at Foxden. It was books by French authors that interested Claire. She walked the length of the bookshelf, fascinated by the Professor’s collection of nineteenth century books. She turned at the sound of the library door opening. ‘I’m admiring Le Comédie Humaine,’ she said, as Professor Marron entered. ‘Do you have the complete works of Balzac?’
‘I wish,’ the Professor said, putting his hands together as if in prayer, ‘but sadly no. There are more than ninety volumes. Is it Balzac that you’re interested in?’
‘Not especially. I want a break from learning German and reading French history books – and thought I’d read a novel for a change.’
Professor Marron stroked his neat beard as he walked along the bookcase, stopping every now and then to peruse a title. ‘You may like this author,’ he said, pulling two novels by Anne Louise Germaine de Staël from the shelf. He handed one to Claire. ‘Delphine. I think you’ll enjoy it.’ He turned the remaining book over in his hands. ‘Corinne! One of my wife’s favourite books. You and she have a lot in common I think – with Madame de Staël too. Goodnight.’ Replacing his wife’s favourite book on the bookcase, Professor Marron left the library.
The following morning Claire tied her scarf tightly under her chin and lifted her face to the sky. She inhaled deeply, filling her lungs with salt air and ozone. With her coat buttoned up to the neck, she braced herself against the blustering wind coming off the North Sea and walked along the beach at Cullercoats. She stood at the water’s edge, overwhelmed by the vast expanse of grey-green sea in front of her. Bending down, she picked up a shell and put it to her ear.
‘Can you hear the sea?’ Éric Marron shouted.
‘Éric! You made me jump. No, I can’t hear anything except the wind.’
Éric picked up a much bigger shell. ‘Try this.’
Claire put it to her ear. ‘Yes!’ she shouted. ‘I can hear the sea. It’s amazing. It sounds… Well, it doesn’t sound anything like I imagined.’
‘Don’t you go to the sea front where you’re based?’
‘Yes, we do our physical training on the beach. It’s mostly sand. I haven’t seen any shells on it. My favourite pastime is walking along the promenade. I do it every chance I get.’ She picked up a pebble and skimmed it across the choppy sea. ‘Two bounces. Whoohoo!’ She bent down and found another flatter, rounder stone. ‘See if you can do better,’ she said, dropping it into Éric’s hand. He threw it and it sank without bouncing. ‘I win,’ Claire cheered.
‘Do you get excited about everything, Miss Dudley? Sorry, Claire. Or is it just the sea?’
Claire thought for a moment. ‘I don’t get excited about everything, but I suppose I’m enthusiastic about most things. What are you enthusiastic about, Éric?’
‘France,’ Éric said, ‘and my mother.’ He turned into the wind. It tousled his hair and made his eyes water. ‘My mother is in
