She isn’t young, but she looks funky. She has dyed black hair and a knob-nosed face like a wooden doll’s. She is wearing a red-and-white crocheted wool skirt that looks as if she might have made it herself. Her companion is tall and pudgy, with a shock of gingery hair and a dirty pink jacket. They have a brocade quilt spread out as a picnic blanket, and a two-liter carton of rosé. On the picnic blanket is laid out an array of pâtés, pizzas, quiches in French butcher paper. They are clearly at the end of their holiday, as Rat’s already confirmed from the arsenal of wine stocked in the back of their station wagon.

Rat and Morgan pitch their tent, unpack their knapsacks.

The woman looks over, and Rat smiles at her.

“Bon appétit,” she says.

“Bon appétit,” the woman replies, smiling back.

“I like your picnic rug,” says Rat.

“Thanks,” says the woman. “It’s our—what do you call it, the thing you put on the bed?”

“Bedspread. Have you had a nice time in France?” Rat inquires, politely.

“No,” says the man in the pink jacket. “In fact, we’ve had an absolutely godawful time in France.”

They all laugh loudly. The man has a gulping laugh, as if laughter were a form of oxygen he was short of.

“That’s not so strange,” Rat replies. “France is an absolutely godawful country.” In fact, she’s never once in her life considered “France” as if it were an entity separable from herself that she could compare to other countries, as you compare teachers or other people’s parents.

“It is fairly godawful,” the man agrees. “Except compared to every other country in the world. Anyway, it wasn’t France’s fault. We came to buy a house, but it fell through.”

The woman catches Morgan gazing hungrily at the spread of pizzas and quiches and pâtés en croûte. “Would you like one?” she gestures at the selection. “We bought loads too much.”

“No, thank you,” says Rat, on Morgan’s behalf. “We have our own food. It just doesn’t look quite as good as yours.”

“Go on, have some,” urges the woman, and this time Rat allows Morgan to accept a slice of pizza.

“One,” Rat says, sternly. She herself takes some quiche. They try not to gobble their food too fast, but still Rat catches the couple exchanging a glance.

“You want to buy a house?” Rat repeats, her mouth full. “In France?”

“Well, we’re fed up with England.”

“What do you do?”

“We’re French teachers,” says the man. “Can’t you tell?”

They all laugh again.

“In fact, I teach French, and Jane teaches special ed. My name’s Charlie, by the way.”

Rat and Morgan introduce themselves.

“I’d offer you some wine, but I don’t suppose you’re old enough to drink.”