The words unhooked from the roof of my mouth and slid out for Léon to hear. Leaving the taste of blood on my tongue.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

The Dumoulin Air Base rolled out the red carpet for us. A line of fifty crisp young men from the mighty United States Air Force stood to attention as a welcome guard and we were greeted by the commanding officer himself, Colonel Masson. Smart, sharp and smiling.

There is something about a large number of men in uniform that is immediately intimidating. They have the better of you without moving a muscle. In identical uniform, shoulder to shoulder, they are no longer individuals, but merge into one superhuman being. They belittle you. They reduce you. Even when standing there doing nothing except staring straight in front of them like wooden soldiers, you know – and they know – that they are a highly efficient killing force. And parked behind them are their highly efficient killing machines.

Only Mayor Durand with his impressive gold chain of office around his neck and Captain Léon Roussel in his authoritative dark uniform and braid could have stood toe to toe with them. There were more than a hundred of us, some I recognised, some were new to me. We had been herded into a large soulless reception room where we were presented with indifferent wine and what they called potato chips.

Our party was mainly male, of course – the president of the Chamber of Commerce, the heads of the major businesses, a number of landowners like Papa, and a big-bellied hotel owner. Among the few women present, all done up in their Sunday best, were the town’s well-respected chief librarian, as well as my old loud-voiced headmistress who oozed disapproval of the whole event and kept lifting her hand to wipe a sheen of sweat from her forehead as though the nearness of so much nuclear power made her nervous. And in a dress designed to have the military eyes out on stalks, Clarisse Favre. Léon had insisted she accompany me.

‘Papa will be with me,’ I’d pointed out. ‘He can be my guard dog.’

‘Your papa,’ Léon said in his best stern-policeman voice, ‘will have his eyes on the aeroplanes and his ears on the facts and figures. Not on you.’

I knew he was right. So here she was. Glued to my side. In a Chanel dress of moss-green linen, the exact colour of her eyes, skimming her slender hips. The plunging neckline was not disguised in any way by the addition of a tiny chiffon scarf at her neck. With her hair swept up in an elaborate knot she looked a million dollars, but this was not her usual style. When I asked her who she thought she was dressing for, she slid me a satisfied smile.

‘For the Americans, chérie. They’re men, aren’t they?’

I laughed. Usually she prided herself on dressing only to please herself.