Little dark eyes, sunk into even darker sockets, stared back at Marjie, expressionless and yet telling of the girl’s fear. Slowly Marjie persuaded Lonia to come into her arms and held her close. ‘One day soon we’ll run around the fields at home, pinching the grapes and being told off by your papa. And we’ll hide behind the larger vines, so that he thinks we have left.’

The scene must have played out in Lonia’s mind, as she joined in. ‘Yes, and we’ll move the baskets full of grapes that the workers have piled up, and see their astonished faces when they come to add more and the baskets aren’t there.’

They both giggled at this. Lonia’s giggles turned to tears. Ella grabbed her and enfolded her in a mother’s love. She nodded at Marjie and whispered, ‘Thank you for making her feel once more. Tears are good; they are a release, and are much better than the closing down that happened earlier. Go safely, my darling girl. I promise that Lonia and I will only tell your mama things that won’t worry her too much.’

Kissing her aunt and Lonia, Marjie turned away as Paulo took his mama and his sister in his arms. Goodbyes were always painful, but now they ripped at her heart.

After hugging her own papa and Uncle Arnie, she and Sibbie set off. Paulo walked with them to the edge of the forest. There he took Sibbie in his arms while Marjie walked ahead, leaving them some privacy. She longed to be held by Wills, just as Paulo was holding Sibbie, but at the same time she was glad for them.

Turning around on her finger the lovely silver ring that Wills had bought her, she looked up towards the sky. Clouds drifted past, revealing and then covering blue patches here and there. The wind that rustled the trees chilled Marjie, but couldn’t touch her inside, where she held Wills close to her heart. Oh, Wills, my husband.

When Sibbie joined her, she had tears in her eyes. Marjie didn’t say anything, but held her hand. This gesture had become one they both knew communicated their feelings to the other. They walked to the main road in silence. Wearing the clothes in which they’d gone into the camp, they looked like two ordinary French girls out for a country walk.

Within hours they were back at Madame Bachelet’s shop, having been picked up by the same taxi and delivered to town, as if they’d truly gone to a great-aunt’s house.

‘Welcome back, mes chères. It has been reported to me that you have done a good job and that all is well with your great-aunt, non?’