‘That’s because it’s new.’

Anne plied the embroidered fabric between her fat red fingers. She had the hands of a labourer: big, strong and without fingernails to speak of. Hands like tools.

‘What are we doing?’

‘A walk round the gardens? A Rocher Suchard? A cigarette?’

‘OK. I’ll put my boots on; the ground’s wet.’

Trees stretched before them, creaking into the void. Engine noise from some distant piece of farm machinery carved the silence into regular chunks. From time to time, Anne strayed off the gravel path to trudge across the boggy grass.

‘Welly boots are good. You can go anywhere in them.’

‘Where’s anywhere, for you?’

‘Right here.’

She put her feet together and jumped into a muddy puddle.

‘Careful, Anne! I’m right next to you … Listen, how about going for a drive?’

‘With you? Outside?’

‘Yes, with me, outside.’

‘I’m not allowed.’

‘You are if you’re with me.’

She looked up at him suspiciously, arms buried elbow-deep in the pockets of her parka, hopping from side to side like a dancing bear.

‘I don’t know.’

‘You needn’t worry, I’ll be there with you. We could go and see the sea?’

‘The sea?’

‘Yes. We could walk on the sand, look at things moving about in rockpools, just like when you were little.’

Anne shrugged several times and sniffed, her eyes darting from left to right and up and down like a cornered animal.

‘Which sea?’

‘Whichever’s nearest. How about Le Touquet?’

‘Le Touquet …’

Doctor Soyons, who was falling asleep at his desk in a wine-scented fug, did not take much persuading. As a formality, he informed Marc of the risks he was taking and asked him to sign a discharge note. Then he saw him off with a limp wave of the hand.

*

‘Put your seatbelt on. There. OK?’

‘Yes. It’s tight. Who’s that in the back?’

‘Boudu. He’s coming with us.’

‘Oh.’

Through the bars of his cage on the back seat, the cat wrinkled his nose and fixed Anne with a stare as glassy as her own.

They arrived about seven in the evening and Marc had no trouble finding a hotel by the beach. At this time of year, Le Touquet was a ghost town. Closed shutters lined the seafront. Knowing his daughter’s behaviour could be unpredictable, he had thought it wise to have dinner delivered to their room rather than eat in the restaurant. Anne did not seem best pleased.

‘Why not in the restaurant?’

‘Aren’t you tired?’

‘No.’

‘OK, fine. Mademoiselle, we’ve changed our minds, we’ll be eating in the restaurant.’

The bedroom was spacious with French windows overlooking the sea, of which the only part visible at this hour was a slim roll of foam dissecting the darkness. Anne pressed her forehead against the black glass.

‘We’re not by the sea. It’s miles away.’