‘It was some slick Yank from Dumoulin Air Base. A Sergeant Wilkinson, who thinks you get a man to like you by calling him “sir” ten times in three sentences.’

‘What did he want?’

‘I told him it is too late for calls.’

‘It’s only nine o’clock, Papa.’

‘Americans think the world is ready to jump to do their bidding.’

‘Why did he ring?’

‘It seems they are running scared.’

‘What makes you say that?’

Papa had lowered himself into his chair and took his knife to the wooden owl’s eye, scratching out a groove. I watched him for a full minute. I’d spent my childhood winters fascinated by the flick and twist of the knife in his skilled hand and had tried myself but with no success.

At the end of the minute I prompted, ‘What makes you think they’re scared?’

‘The Yanks have invited a bunch of what he called “dignitaries” over there on Saturday. Some kind of goodwill occasion, he called it.’

That was it.

I waited for more. None came. I stood up, walked over to the cupboard, poured out two glasses of wine and placed one at Papa’s elbow. I took the other one back to my seat with me.

‘Have you been invited, Papa?’

‘I have.’

I sipped my wine and was tempted to take a bite out of the glass. Papa’s leathery face was totally focused on one of the owl’s feathers.

‘Which other dignitaries?’ He didn’t look up. ‘No idea.’

‘Will you go?’

A huff, like one of his horses, came out of his wide nostrils. ‘I will.’

I swilled wine around my mouth.

‘Am I invited?’

‘You are. Though I don’t know why.’

I exhaled very quietly so that he would not hear my relief. Thank you, Major Dirke.

*

How could I make such a mistake?

I was being so careful. I’d drawn in my claws. Talking to no one. Upsetting no one. Stirring up no trouble. I was determined that nothing should go wrong before the visit to the air base, no risk of any calamities that would cause it to be cancelled. I kept my head down. My mouth shut.

The next two days were spent in a blur of bridles and leather, herding black mean-eyed four-legged creatures of solid muscle and cleaning out hooves. Scrubbing my horse’s muddy coat. Falling into bed with aching bones, still wet from a shower. And eating, always eating alongside the men. When did I last eat like this? Not since a child. As if there were a gigantic hole inside me. Léon had laughed when I’d complained I would end up as fat as Madame Cazal who ran the bakery, and he wrapped his arms around me.