The boy they called Jacques was rude. Maybe it was just because he wasn’t a family member and so didn’t feel obliged to greet her and Elena; but mostly because he was the one that insisted on speaking that strange language. While the others at least made an effort to speak French, Jacques spoke stubbornly in that strange tongue and all the others followed suit, except for Marie-Claire. Everything Jacques said or did seemed to cause disruption.

‘Where shall we go first?’ Marie-Claire said now. ‘To see Gigi’s puppies, or to the vines? Gigi’s one of our dogs,’ she explained, as if that wasn’t obvious.

At the word ‘puppies’ Sibyl’s head jerked up, and at ‘dogs’ she smiled fleetingly and a sparkle leapt into her eyes. As far back as she could remember she had begged for a dog, and just as far back Mama had said no. A dog had been the one thing missing in an otherwise perfect life; the one family member whose absence she had felt day and night. Now, of course, it was different.

Papa! The wail came from deep inside and once again she collapsed internally. Gigi and her pups evaporated, the sparkle in her eyes snuffed out. But Jacques, once again, was shouting something loud and brash in his gibberish, and Marie-Claire arguing back, the two of them in a violent verbal battle. Jacques stormed off, followed by the boys. One moment they were there, in the room with them, the next, Jacques was out the door with Leon and Lucien behind him, thundering down the stairs, while Marie-Claire was still in mid-speech.

Sibyl turned back to the window, to the view, so that no-one would see the tears gathering in her eyes. Papa! The boys came into view beneath her, racing out the door, across the driveway and disappearing around the corner of a building that looked like a huge stone barn.

‘They have gone to see the puppies,’ Marie-Claire said. ‘They are four weeks old and so mignon! Jacques is besotted with them. He thinks he owns them. It is strange because Jacques is such a wild boy and he likes doing wild and naughty things but those puppies – oh la la! He thinks Gigi needs him to help take care of them but she doesn’t. He’s such a nuisance, that Jacques. I was going to take you to see them but now he is there, he’s so bossy about those pups, so I don’t want to go. I will take you to see them later when he’s gone. We can go now to look at the vines. We also have a nanny goat. And two more dogs, but they like to go off to hunt rabbits. They are called Milou and Paris. Come, let’s go. Come, Victoire, take my hand.’

‘I want to hold Sibyl’s hand,’ said Victoire, doing just that. The four girls made their way back down the stairs into the kitchen; a big green square room where pans hung from the ceiling and pots of herbs lined a long windowsill. Mama was there with Auntie Margaux, who said,

‘Hello girls; have you been up to your room yet? Did you like it? Isn’t the view wonderful? Kathleen, I will take you up in a minute but I need to prepare the dough for the tarte flambée we are going to eat tonight. Run along, girls. Marie-Claire, you can take them to see the vines maybe?’

Marie-Claire was just like her mother, she never stopped talking. Sibyl knew it was polite to listen attentively, and that’s what she did. Marie-Claire, leading them down a pathway that turned off from the main drive, was now explaining about the harvest, which, she said, was imminent.

‘We have to find just the exact right time to start the harvest,’ she was saying. ‘When the grapes have achieved their maximum sweetness, when they are succulent and plump and just begging you to pick them. Monsieur Dolch is a genius, he always knows the exact day. Monsieur Dolch is the father of Jacques. He is our winemaker. He is very good. Jacques knows it too. Jacques can tell you exactly when it is time to begin the harvest. He thinks he knows everything about grapes already but he doesn’t. His father knows more but is teaching him. Oh, here he is again. Jacques Dolch! Why did you bring those puppies? You should not separate them from their mother yet, they are too small! It is cruel! You think you know everything about grapes and puppies but you don’t!’

Indeed, Jacques and the two Laroche boys had come running up, each with two puppies in their arms. Behind them ran a silky black dog, obviously concerned about her pups, looking up beseechingly at Jacques, who now held his two down for her to lick them.

‘I just wanted to show them,’ said Jacques, pointing at Elena and Sibyl with his chin, but not looking at them. Instead, he put one puppy in Sibyl’s arms and one in Elena’s.

These were the first French words he had spoken since their arrival. ‘Gigi is right here. She doesn’t mind,’ he continued, in French, and then broke into a deluge of words in that strange tongue; his tone was quarrelsome, and so was Marie-Claire’s when she replied.

Sibyl, busy stroking the squirming pup, couldn’t help it. Irritated by this rudeness, she interrupted: ‘What are you saying? Don’t you know it is rude if you have guests to talk in a foreign language?’

Marie-Claire looked immediately apologetic, but Jacque’s annoyance – with Marie-Claire, or with her, Sibyl couldn’t tell – was palpable. He glared at her for a moment and then said, in perfect French, ‘I am not speaking a foreign language. I am speaking alsacien, because I live in Alsace and I am alcasien.’

‘In English, that is Alsatian,’ said Marie-Claire, in English. ‘But Jacques does not speak English. We should all speak English so he can see what it feels like.’ She repeated what she’d said in French, for Jacques benefit, who, it seemed, did not understand English.

Jacques retort was in Alsatian, and there followed a stream of even more gibberish, but obviously wasn’t, since Leon and Lucien laughed loudly and even Marie-Claire seemed to be holding back a chuckle, which to Sibyl seemed like betrayal. She needed to protest.

‘But Alsatian is a dog – a breed of dog! It isn’t a language!’ Her favourite breed, besides. Her cousins in Norfolk had an Alsatian, and that was the kind of dog Sibyl wanted. Though any dog was better than none. And here there were three! And puppies! She cuddled the one she held, rubbing her cheek against its warm fur, and kissed it.

They laughed all the louder, though Marie-Claire stopped immediately, grew serious, and said, ‘Did they not teach you history in your school? Did you not know that when you came to our place, to Alsace, you are coming to a country embedded in two countries, that we have our own culture, our own language, our own identity? If you want to understand us you must learn alsacien.’

Sibyl and Elena could only shake their heads. No, they knew nothing of all this. Sibyl felt ashamed of her outburst, ashamed of her ignorance, ashamed of putting that ignorance on display. Most especially, of doing so before Jacques, that most exasperating of boys. She stood there biting her lip, trying to come to terms with her ignorance and her embarrassment. But Jacques wasn’t paying her awkwardness any attention. He had turned to the vine behind him, plucked one plump green grape and was inspecting it, shading his eyes as he held it up to the sun, before biting into it. A glazed, dreamy look came into his eyes; he seemed to be rolling that grape around in his mouth, savouring it with every cell of his body. He is far away, Sibyl thought, on a planet of his own.

‘Mercredi prochain,’ he said, in French, landing back on earth. He retrieved the puppies from Elena and Sibyl gently but firmly and without a further word in either French or Alsatian, clasped them to his chest, and gambolled off, Leon and Lucien scampering behind him, and Gigi prancing around them all, yapping.

‘Il est fou,’ said Marie-Claire, ‘but he’s probably right about the harvest. Next Wednesday! Let’s just hope the good weather holds.’