Lily tried not to peek as Jacques, stripped to the waist, rubbed his hair dry with a towel after a hot bath back at the bakery. But what she did see of his body secretly enraptured her. His back, shoulders and arms were pitted with cuts and bruises, but his skin was olive brown and, she imagined, would be soft as petals to touch. Clean-shaven and rejuvenated by plenty of cups of sweet tea, Jacques had scrubbed up well. He also had one of those dazzling smiles that, when directed at Lily, made her feel as if he’d just handed her a beautifully wrapped gift. Jacques took a drag from his cigarette, given to him by Charlie, half closing his eyes in pleasure as he exhaled. Delicious smells of home-cooked food emanated from the bakery and in the distance, the sea glittered in the afternoon sunlight.

Lily crossed her arms over her chest and blinked, feeling disorientated. Yesterday she had left London in a panic, carrying a secret as explosive as a grenade. Today she was in Audrey’s backyard with a very attractive French solider, struggling not to feel shy in his presence. She couldn’t keep up with her own emotions that seemed to explode inside her like firecrackers.

‘The grazes are from the barbed wire,’ Jacques explained in fluent English, gesturing to his wounds. ‘There was wire in the sea and on the beach. The rescuers were determined though. Some even came on canoes because the bigger boats couldn’t get any closer to the beach. The water was too shallow. I owe those brave people my life.’

He tried to reach his back in order to rub on some Germolene, but couldn’t stretch that far.

‘Audrey gave me this ointment,’ he said, looking at her from under thick eyelashes. ‘Would you mind…?’

Lily blushed, but smiled and nodded, remembering that, in this situation, she was the next best thing to a nurse. Her fingers shook slightly as, using balls of cotton wool, she dabbed the cream on the wounds, trying to ignore the broad reach of his shoulders and his tapered waist. His wounds must have been so sore, but he didn’t flinch. Watching him as he stared out towards the sea, she thought of him as the type of man who suited the outdoors, who liked to be close to nature. She wondered what on earth he had seen on the front line. Before she had time to think it through, the question had left her lips.

‘What was it like over there?’ she asked quietly, as he carefully pulled on the shirt lent to him by Charlie. ‘I mean… sorry, maybe I should not ask that. You won’t want to talk about that.’

Elsie blushed even more as Jacques turned to face her, a quizzical expression on his face. He smiled.

‘It was like a bad dream, the worst bad dream you can imagine,’ he said, in his gentle French accent. ‘It was opposite to everything I have ever believed about how men should behave. It was the darkest day of my life and now, suddenly, I am here. Safe for a few hours, days.’

Lily smiled kindly and nodded in recognition. Jacques took a seat on a wooden bench and indicated that she should join him and the two of them sat in silence for a few moments, their legs almost touching, the warm sun on their faces.

‘What about you?’ he said, finishing his cigarette. ‘Tell me about you.’

Lily held her hands up in the air and let them drop back down by her side, shaking her head. There was something about Jacques that made her want to open up to him, but she knew she couldn’t possibly. He was there to recuperate, not listen to her silly, self-inflicted problems. She shrugged and smiled, as if there was nothing to tell.

‘What did you do before the war?’ Lily asked instead.

‘I was working with my father,’ Jacques said. ‘He is a printer and so I was his apprentice, but I also like to draw, so he’d allow me to take off for a couple of days, to see new things and draw them. I thought joining up would be an extension of that, a chance to travel and see more of the world with my best friend.’

His eyes darkened before he went on to tell her the dreadful story of his best friend’s death on the beach at Dunkirk. By the end of it Lily was in tears.

‘My mother cried when I told her I was going to fight,’ he said. ‘Now I know why. And you? Where is your mother?’

‘She’s dead,’ said Lily, wiping her eyes and feeling Jacques study her mouth as she spoke. ‘She died when I was four. I have a photograph of her, but it’s faded. It’s quite hard to remember what she looked like, though my father says we’re exactly the same. Red hair. Gappy teeth. Pale as milk.’

Lily laughed at her own expense, but Jacques touched her arm and gave it a gentle squeeze. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘You must miss her.’

Again, Lily’s eyes filled with tears and she tutted in annoyance at herself. He touched her hand and smiled. Feeling his gentle concern, she rapidly blinked the tears away and turned from Jacques’ gaze to compose herself. For a distraction, she grabbed a tin of mints from her pocket, offered Jacques one and popped one onto her own tongue. They smiled at one another.

‘Jacques! Lily!’ called Audrey suddenly from the kitchen window. They leapt from their seats, as if caught doing something forbidden. ‘Dinner!’

---

‘This,’ said Audrey, placing an enormous slice of steaming rabbit pie onto Jacques’ plate and a generous portion of stuffed marrow and peas alongside, ‘will put some hairs on your chest.’

Jacques and Lily took a seat at the round dining table, with Audrey, Charlie and Uncle John. They were in the best room, the dining room, where the walls were decorated in floral wallpaper and the fireplace surrounded with forest green tiles, and a small cabinet of silver snuffboxes and cigarette cases was displayed, a collection passed down through Charlie’s family. To mark the occasion, Audrey had put out the best napkins, candlesticks and crockery (nothing so lovely as a set table), filled a small glass vase with water and picked sweet peas from the patch of flowers that hadn’t been turned to vegetable growing – and baked the biggest pie she could with the ingredients available. A ration-friendly version of bread pudding waited in the kitchen to be served up when the dinner plates had been scraped clean.

‘I hope you like it,’ she said, nervously smiling. Having Lily arrive at the bakery today was enough of a surprise, but now she had Jacques here too and she wanted, more than anything, for them both to feel welcome. And though it was a bit of a squeeze at the table, with elbows and knees bumping, Audrey felt driven – compelled even – to look after Jacques to the very best of her ability. If William was out there somewhere, staying in a stranger’s home and putting a brave face on his loneliness, she desperately hoped they would treat him in the same way and help him forget the horror of war, if only for a few hours.

‘Bon appétit!’ she said, using the sum of her French vocabulary in one go.

Charlie raised his eyebrows, a smile playing on his lips.

‘Merci beaucoup,’ Jacques said with his gentle French accent. ‘It smells delicious. Thank you very much.’

‘The proof of the pudding is in the tasting, as they say,’ Audrey said with a quick smile, hoping that Jacques was as content as he seemed, though doubting it somehow as he sat, dressed in a spare set of Charlie’s clothes, eating foreign food, with his own family and home hundreds of miles away.

‘Uncle John,’ she said, serving John, who was having dinner with them that evening before he and Charlie started back in the bakehouse, then Charlie and Lily, with a handsome wedge of pie, marrow and fresh peas.

‘Beautiful bit-an’-drap,’ said John, closing his eyes and breathing in the scent of the rich rabbit meat that drifted from the pie.

‘Perfect crust,’ said Charlie, tapping the crust with his fork. ‘Long time since we’ve had a pie.’

‘This is potato pastry,’ said Audrey. ‘It’s a new way of making pastry saving on fat. Pat told me about it. Full of good ideas, she is. What was the other one? Fudge made with stale crusts. That was it.’

‘Nowt so queer as folk,’ said John. ‘And especially not Pat. I should know, she’s my sister.’

Charlie laughed. He was always jovial around John, and Audrey was pleased she’d invited him for dinner. She hated the thought of him eating alone in his house since his wife Hazel had died last summer, or probably not eating very much at all if his empty larder was anything to go by.

Everyone tucked into the food, with the exception of Lily, who held her fork limply over the meal in front of her, spearing a bit of pastry and nibbling a tiny crumb before hastily drinking water from her glass. Audrey frowned.

‘Everything okay, Lily?’ she asked.

‘Did you say it’s rabbit?’ asked Lily, her skin going a shade paler.

John put down his fork and burst out laughing, his mouth still half full of pie. ‘He didn’t go by the name Peter, and weren’t wearin’ a velvet blue jacket or shoes,’ he laughed, ‘if that’s what you’re askin’.’

Charlie roared with laughter and Jacques looked bemused, but smiled all the same. Audrey felt a giggle bubbling up inside of her, but realised that Lily was not amused.

‘Stop it, John,’ snapped Audrey, before turning to Lily. ‘Rabbit isn’t on the meat ration, so I thought we’d get a better dinner for us all out of it. If you don’t like it, I’m sure one of the men will eat your portion and I can give you more vegetables?’

Before she’d had time to reply, John reached over the table and helped himself to Lily’s portion, still laughing. This time his laugh became a hacking cough and it took Audrey patting him on the back to make him stop.

‘You should get that cough checked,’ Audrey said. ‘Have you seen the doctor about it? I can’t think the flour helps, though I know you wash the dust from your throat with beer often enough.’

‘My cough is my business, Audrey Barton. You mind your own,’ he said, winking. ‘Don’t be afeared of me, young Lily, I’m just playin’.’

‘I’m not afraid,’ Lily replied, confidently. ‘The pie looks nice, it’s just I have been off my food lately. I’m sorry to be rude.’

‘It is the best thing I have tasted in months,’ said Jacques, his fork halfway to his mouth.

‘Ark a’ee,’ said John, grinning, pointing his fork at Jacques. ‘There’ll be seconds for you, lad.’

‘With manners like that you can stay as long as you like,’ Audrey joked, then, lowering her voice, added ‘You could certainly teach Uncle John here a thing or two.’

‘What have I ever done to you?’ John said, with fake incredulity. The table erupted into laughter again and Audrey glanced at Jacques to see if he was following the conversation.

‘I’d like to help in some way if I could,’ said Jacques. ‘In the bakery perhaps?’

‘We can always use an extra pair of hands,’ said Charlie, nodding. ‘Lily, if you’re visitin’ for any length of time, you would be useful serving in the shop, and Jacques, you could help bring in the coke or shift a few bags of flour to save John’s old legs—’

‘Less of the old,’ said John. ‘I’m not ready for the knacker’s yard just yet.’

‘But Jacques should take the opportunity to rest while he’s here,’ interrupted Audrey, nudging Charlie under the table. ‘We can manage the bakery, Charlie, without leaning on this soldier’s shoulders? He’s already done enough.’

Charlie put his hands down flat on the table, pushing out his chair. ‘I’ll not lean on anyone. That is not what I was saying,’ he barked. ‘The young man asked what he could do to help and I gave him a straight answer. There’s nothing worse than feeling like you’re no use to anyone, is there lad? Nothing worse. Excuse me, I have work to do.’

Charlie stood up abruptly.

‘There’s bread pudding, love,’ Audrey called after him, but he stalked out and left an awkward silence hanging like a pungent smell in the room. Audrey sighed, inwardly chastising herself for inadvertently ruffling Charlie’s feathers. Honestly, her husband was so bad-tempered these days! She heaped more vegetables onto Jacques and John’s plates, smiling cheerily to compensate for Charlie’s mood. ‘Don’t mind Charlie,’ she said, then addressing Jacques, ‘I think you should have some fun while you can, that’s all I’m saying. Lily and you could go dancing on the pier if your feet are up to it. Do you both good, I’m sure. And it might be the last chance – I’ve heard the Royal Engineers are soon going to be blowing up the piers to prevent Hitler and his cronies landing on our shores.’

‘I would like that,’ said Jacques. ‘If you would like to come too, Lily?’

Lily, who was clearly struggling to eat anything, even her vegetables, nodded. Audrey noticed the blush creeping up Lily’s cheek whenever Jacques spoke to her. It was obvious there was a spark between them – and there was no denying that Jacques was a handsome lad. Now he’d had a bath, his dark hair was swept back from his forehead, revealing bright, striking blue eyes – similar in shade to Lily’s – an olive complexion and full lips. He had the quiet air of someone who could hold his own wherever he went. It would do both of them good to enjoy each other’s company, and take each other’s minds off things, rather than listen to the evening news on the wireless, which was the routine, but was usually depressing.

‘I think we’re done here, so why don’t you two get ready?’ she said to Lily and Jacques after pudding. ‘I’ve got a yellow dress needs wearing, Lily, if you want to borrow it? I never get a chance these days.’

Lily and Jacques exchanged hesitant glances and quickly broke into smiles.

‘I must first write to my family,’ Jacques said. ‘Excuse me. Thank you for dinner.’

‘I will help do the dishes,’ said Lily.

‘And I,’ said John, ‘will be in the flour loft to shift that flour. It ain’t goin’ t’ move on it’s own.’

‘Watch your back, John!’ Audrey called after him, as the flour sacks weighed twice as much as him.

‘Stop fussin’,’ he boomed back. ‘I’ve been carrying those sacks on me back for forty years and I ain’t about to stop!’

---

Audrey held up the 2/- glass bottle of Quix liquid washer and carefully poured a few drops into the sink, while Lily waited by her side, tea towel in hand.

‘Supposed to get sixty bowlfuls out of this,’ she said, replacing the lid. ‘More like half that!’

One look at Audrey’s warm kitchen proved to Lily that her stepsister never slept. Not only was she working flat out in the bakery, the kitchen shelves were yet more evidence of Audrey’s industry. Lily scanned the handwritten labels on the numerous glass jars – there were salted beans and cauliflower, pickled cucumber, carrot jam and apple chutney, which Lily assumed she was laying down in case rationing got worse. Atop the stove was a pan of carrot, turnip and beetroot tops and a small pot of nutmeg. On the table rested some of Audrey’s cake baking equipment – brass weighing scales and baking tins, a flour douser and recipes written in a notebook in Audrey’s neat handwriting. It was open on a page for ‘Cut And Come Again Cake’ and underneath she had written ‘recommended by Mrs King’.

Lily was struck by what a homely home Audrey had created. The only missing component was four rosy-cheeked little children sitting around the table, waiting to be fed like baby birds in a nest.

‘Expect you’re wondering where all the books are?’ said Audrey, elbow-deep in suds. ‘We haven’t got time for reading stories with running a bakery like this. We work all hours. The ovens are lit Sunday night and stay lit until the following Sunday morning, so there’s no time for much else. I remember you always had your nose in a book. You always had brains, and of course your father had enough books to fill a library!’

Lily nodded, not wanting to think about her father.

‘What’s this?’ she asked instead, picking up a huge saucepan filled with dozens of scraps of soap. ‘You’re not baking with soap, are you?’

Audrey smiled. ‘Funny you should say that,’ she said. ‘I’m making a soap cake, but not for eating. I’ve collected all the unusable bits of soap from the customers and I’ll boil this up, then set it in a tin. When it’s cold I’ll slice it up and give everyone a decent piece of soap. Waste not, want not.’

‘Good idea,’ Lily said. ‘Looks like you’ve been busy.’

Lily thought of her parents’ home, which Audrey’s estranged mother kept minimally decorated and devoid of clutter, apart from the bookshelves stacked with her father’s books. It was poles apart from Audrey’s comforting kitchen, where every surface was filled with things to look at and the walls were peppered with recipes torn from newspapers and magazines. Even the windowsill was busy with flowerpots, biscuit tins and jars holding a collection of screws, keys and oddities.

‘I prefer to be working,’ Audrey said. ‘Keeps my mind off the war and fretting about William. I so hoped we’d have heard from him by now… but less of that and more of you. It’s so good to see you.’

She grabbed Lily’s hand and gave it a squeeze, beaming at her.

‘How is my mother?’ Audrey asked, tentatively. ‘How has she been?’

Lily saw sadness in Audrey’s expression and she wished she could give her the news that she wanted – that Daphne had talked about Audrey and William, that she clearly missed them both. In truth, Daphne was intensely private and seemed to exist solely for Victor and for keeping the house in order. Lily knew Daphne wasn’t happy though – the bottles of gin she kept on top of the kitchen cupboard were a telltale sign of her dissatisfaction.

‘She’s been busy helping with Father’s accounting business,’ said Lily, diplomatically. ‘Doing the books.’

Audrey gave Lily a knowing, sideways glance and sighed. ‘And what about Jacques?’ she said, quickly changing the subject. ‘He’s a lovely young man, isn’t he? He told me his father is a printer in the south of France and that he has three sisters. He asked me about you, Lily – he seems quite taken with you, I have to say.’

Audrey raised her eyebrows in playful question but, feeling her cheeks colour, Lily shook her head.

‘He’s very nice,’ she said, her mind drifting to the sight of him shirtless outside. ‘But I’m sure he has a sweetheart back at home. That’s who he’ll be writing to now. I’m not looking for love, Audrey, though I know people think it’s odd for me to not want to be married the minute I turn eighteen.’

Lily’s words came out more harshly than she intended.

‘That might be so, but there’s no harm in you two becoming friends, is there?’ Audrey said, slightly taken aback as she looked more closely at her step-sister. ‘Lily, are you feeling right? You’re very pale and you hardly ate anything at dinner.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Lily said, blushing. ‘I don’t have much of an appetite.’

‘Is it this war? I know it turns my stomach,’ Audrey asked. ‘Or is there anything else wrong? You know you’re welcome to go over to Old Reg and use his telephone to speak to your father at any time, should you wish to. He does know you’re here, doesn’t he?’

Lily looked at the floor and pushed a tiny bit of grit around with the toe of her shoe. Thinking of her father filled her with a dizzying set of emotions. Her entire life he’d watched her like a hawk. He insisted on the best education, didn’t allow her to court boys and disapproved of her passion for American jazz swing bands. When Benny Goodman came to London and her friends went to watch him in concert, he banned her from going. She’d tried to climb out her bedroom window, but he caught her and so she had to content herself with listening to the wireless, closing her eyes and imagining. Gosh how she’d yearned for freedom over the years, imagining visiting the far-flung places she read about in books, but now without his close attention, she felt strangely out of control.

‘I told them I was coming to see you,’ said Lily, hurriedly. ‘And that I hoped to stay with you, to get reacquainted with you. After all, you’re my stepsister…’

‘I imagine that went down well,’ said Audrey, with a quick smile. ‘Are you feeling poorly? You’re green about the gills.’

Audrey frowned when she held a hand up to Lily’s forehead to feel her temperature.

Lily’s stomach clenched and her palms sweated under Audrey’s scrutiny, gentle and concerned as it was. Lily felt she was losing track of the truth and the anxiety she’d so far managed to suppress that day was bubbling to the surface. She had to talk to Audrey about why she’d come. It wasn’t fair to just arrive and not offer any explanation. She opened her mouth to speak, but quickly faltered. How should she begin? Lily put the pan she had dried up onto the board by the Belfast sink and felt her shoulders sag.

‘What is it?’ Audrey asked gently, sitting down on the kitchen chair and patting the chair next to her. ‘Has something happened at home? Is this something to do with your bruised eye?’

Lily raised her eyes to the ceiling to halt the tears, but her lip quivered and her shoulders trembled as she broke down into tears. She couldn’t hold them in for a moment longer.

‘Oh no, don’t cry,’ said Audrey, gently holding Lily in her arms. Beyond the steamy kitchen window, the sun was sinking low in the sky, casting long shadows across the walls. ‘What’s wrong?’

Being in the warm kitchen with Audrey made Lily want to confess everything, to open up her heart and let out all the feelings she’d been bottling up these last weeks. ‘I shouldn’t have come here like this, but I didn’t know what else to do,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t stay at home with my father breathing down my neck. I needed time to think.’

Tears were streaming down Lily’s cheeks now and Audrey handed her a hanky, to wipe them away.

‘You can tell me anything,’ Audrey said, holding Lily at arm’s length and looking her in the eye.

Lily’s lip quivered as she recalled the first time she’d given in to Henry Bateman’s attention. He’d been showing her the artist’s drawings for the new ‘Whispers of War’ poster campaign to encourage the public not to gossip, and as usual, she had felt honoured to be seeing the artwork proofs and felt that Henry valued her opinion. After working late one evening, the two of them alone in the office, he had confided in her that he had volunteered to join the RAF, and that he would be recommending that she take on a more senior role after he left. Lily was flattered and delighted, but upset that he was leaving. They had grown close and she admired him.

‘I’ve become very fond of you,’ he had gone on to say. ‘And I’m running out of time to show you how I really feel.’

She’d sensed he wanted to kiss her and, emboldened by his praise, had impulsively leaned into him, planting her lips on his, her entire body blazing with excitement. Though in the back of her mind she was shocked by her bold action and knew it should all stop there and then, Henry looked at her with such desire, she felt strangely empowered, not to mention intrigued.

After quickly locking the door and assuring her he had taken precautions, Henry told her he wanted to make love to her. It was Lily’s first time and though she knew she shouldn’t be partaking in the act – heavens, they were not even officially a couple – she had happily consented.

She had floated on air afterwards and when it happened once more, two days later, raised the issue of their relationship status. Were they now officially a couple? Was this love?

‘I have a fiancée,’ he responded. ‘Her name is Helen and we have known each other since we were children. We will be married in a matter of months. I should never have let this happen. This all must stop.’

Lily had felt crushed and ashamed, not knowing what to think or how to process what had happened. The predominant feelings she was left with were emptiness and confusion. Then, a few days after shattering her heart, Henry had told Lily he had to let her go, telling her she was ‘a distraction to the war effort’. Lily had been stunned. When he told her to collect her things and not to come back, she hadn’t been able to move.

‘But I love my job,’ she’d stuttered. ‘You told me I had a bright future ahead of me. My father will kill me!’

‘You should have thought about that,’ he had said, so coldly she shivered.

Now, in her mind’s eye, she saw the pool of fountain pen ink, like blue blood, spreading across the desk and spoiling his paperwork after she’d tipped over his ink in anger. But the ink seemed minor revenge for how ruthlessly she had been discarded. What about her promotion? What about her promising future? What about her reputation?

Worse, when she reached home, after the dismissal, she discovered that Henry had got to her father first – informing his cricketing friend that there had been an unfortunate incident with Lily and an office junior behaving inappropriately together and that, under the circumstances, Henry had no choice but to let Lily go. He assured Victor he’d been ‘discreet’ about it but that, with all the important work they did at the office, everyone had to stay absolutely focused on the job. Victor had been furious with Lily, and had not let her out of his sight for weeks and weeks. When Lily confronted him with the truth one day, calling Henry Bateman a cruel liar who had treated him like a fool, Victor had lashed out and hit Lily, telling her that she was ‘twisting the truth’. Victor had never been violent towards her before and it had shocked them both. It was then that Lily had made a hasty plan to come to Bournemouth, to see Audrey.

Lily trembled, digging her fingernails into her palms as she thought about the fact that nobody, apart from Henry, knew the worst of this whole situation and the real reason she’d fled from London. Though her father was unspeakably disappointed in her conduct, he didn’t know the half of it. She gulped as she admitted the truth to herself: her monthly visitor was late. Two months late. Henry, the cheat, had lied about taking precautions.

‘I trusted someone I shouldn’t have trusted,’ she told Audrey. ‘I did something I regret… if only I had thought through what I was doing, but I didn’t. I was too hot-headed.’

Lily stared at her shoes, too ashamed to look Audrey in the eye.

‘Everyone does things they regret,’ Audrey said sadly. ‘It’s part of life.’

At that moment, there was a loud hammering on the bakery door and the sound of Elsie’s voice calling Audrey’s name. Seconds later the door flew open and Elsie appeared, her face flushed pink, her curly black hair sticking up from her head in a wild bush, as if she had run the whole way. In her hand she clutched a white envelope that she waved around in the air, like a flag.

‘Audrey!’ Elsie exclaimed. ‘I came straight here!’

‘What is it?’ Audrey said nervously, lifting her hand to her throat.

‘It’s William,’ Elsie said, collapsing into joyous, noisy laughter. ‘He’s safe. He’s written. He’s got compassionate leave and wants us to get married.’

‘Married?’ exclaimed Audrey. ‘Oh Elsie, that’s wonderful.’

As Audrey and Elsie clasped hands and celebrated together, Audrey looked over Elsie’s shoulder at Lily, who smiled apologetically, dried her eyes and slipped out of the room. Her problems, no matter that they felt as enormous as one of the barrage balloons floating on the London skyline, could wait.

---

Jacques had lied. He was not writing to his family. He had moved the sacks of flour for John while the old man was in the privy, and was now sitting on the rickety chair at the small desk in his attic room, writing to Lily, so that when he left the Bartons’ home to return to service, he could tell her in writing what he could not find the courage to say out loud.

In one corner of the room there were several crates of apples drying out for use in pies over the winter, filling the room with a delicious sweet aroma, a smell Jacques thought he would remember forever. Looking out of the small window, the sky blazing with a breathtaking pink and orange sunset, Jacques was struck by the contrast between where he had found himself, here in the heart of this comforting bakery, and where he had come from in the battlefields.

Blinking in the buttery pink light, he thought carefully about how he should best write this, most important, letter. These last few days had utterly changed his outlook on life. He felt he had come away from the bloody battle in France by the skin of his teeth. The death and destruction he’d witnessed plagued his every thought. Even when he closed his eyes, the atrocious scenes played out on the insides of his eyelids: the low-diving bombers, the armoured cars and the sounds of artillery fire ripping into his brain; the pure desolation he and his fellow soldiers had felt on realising they were trapped by Hitler’s army; the hunger, dehydration and rotting wounds; the missiles at Dunkirk, dropped on the beaches and into the sea to try to prevent the men getting to the rescue boats. Jacques could not make sense of the sheer scale of inhumanity he’d witnessed, or why he, and not so many others, had survived.

He squeezed his fist around the brass button he was holding – a button from the uniform of his lifelong best friend, Jean Gaudet, who, aged eighteen, had been shot in the back as he ran towards the sea. Thinking of Jean’s body, left on the beach in the ungainly position in which he fell, brought tears flooding into Jacques’ eyes, silently running down his nose and blotting the writing paper before him.

Jean had been a raconteur who loved a good time. He enjoyed music, singing and dancing and found so much to laugh about. When they were boys, his mother used to say that Jean laughed out loud in his sleep. There was nobody else quite like him, and now he was gone, leaving a huge void in his wake.

Jacques wiped at his tears with the side of his hand. He had tried to revive Jean amidst the chaos, but it was no use. His superior had ordered all surviving men – by roaring at the top of his lungs with almost mythical force – to get into the sea and onto one of the small, overloaded rowing boats out to a ship, or else die. Jacques had tried to drag Jean’s body with him, but he was a well-built man and Jacques was too weak from dehydration and hunger. In trying to pull him, Jacques had ripped a button off Jean’s uniform. He knew how pathetic it would seem, but he had vowed to Jean to give the button to his mother when he returned to their village.

Jacques closed his eyes for a moment, his stomach cramping and aching with the awful thought of that prospect. Why did you survive, Jean’s mother would want to know. And not my precious son?

The only person who might be able to take away all this pain and indescribable guilt was Lily. From the moment Jacques had laid eyes on her in the school rest centre, he had known that his heart was in her hands. Just when he thought his world was shrouded in darkness forever more, Lily’s beautiful face and gentle ways had made him realise that it was possible to rediscover hope. There was something about the soft way she had bathed his feet with her pale, delicate fingers that had rendered him almost speechless – and from that moment on she only had to look at him for his insides to be filled with molten lava, for his mouth to dry up and his palms to turn clammy.

She was beautiful, with hair the colour of autumn, but it was her nature and grace that had lassoed his heart. Little things about her fascinated him: the tiny peppermints she popped into her mouth, taken from a small round tin she kept in her pocket. The delight that lit up her face when she made observations about her budgie, Bertie: ‘I sometimes think he is studying me, rather than the other way around,’ she had quipped. Her description of the volunteers at the school as a ‘colony of honey bees’, and the way she tried to cover the gap between her teeth with her lips when she smiled, all squeezed his heart.

There were so many things! It was the way she nodded encouragingly when he talked in English, the patience with which she’d listened to him and, perhaps most intriguingly, the air of vulnerability that she carried close to her chest. In a time when everyone, men and women alike, was having to be as tough as old leather boots in the harsh face of war, Lily’s vulnerability felt to him like a precious and delicate rare thing that he wanted to hold in his hands and protect. He wanted her to confide in him as he had confided in her.

The only trouble was, he thought, glancing up from his letter and out of the window, startled by the sight of a fat seagull on the roof, he had very little time to convince her of how he felt. He would try, he determined, to begin to win Lily’s heart. If there was anything that he’d learned from the loss of his dearest friend at Dunkirk and the horror of what he’d witnessed, where so many thousands of young men lost their lives, it was this: that those men left standing should rage against the evils of the war and live and love as passionately and boldly as any man could. He owed it to Jean, his best friend, to grasp hold of love and never let go. He started his letter, Ma chérie Lily…, an escaped tear blurring his ink.