Joe thought. ‘To tell the truth,’ he said, ‘the nights were lonesome, in the dark, in the big house. But by day, I lived like a wild man in the copse with the birds and all for company.’

‘But how did you survive?’

‘I had a few tinkers’ tricks up my arm,’ Joe said. ‘Hedgehogs. Rabbits. Baked underground. I hid out for almost a year.’

Barbara winced. City girl, for sure. Joe winked at her, tapped the side of his nose.

‘And Pierre provided well,’ Joe went on. ‘Filtered off a little from the Red Cross. KLIM powdered milk. Sardines. Tea. I can see it now.’

There was another fork of lightning, sharp as a trident.

‘Cigarettes. Cheese. Not the fresh stuff, the processed kind. KAM luncheon meat. Raisins. Sugar. Oh, and best of all, Lowney’s Canadian Vanilla Sweet Chocolate.’ Joe licked his lips, made a smacking sound. ‘I can still remember the packet with its red lettering. I tell you, I hadn’t seen food like this since before the war. I knew Pierre was up to tricks, but this was like the Monaghan gold of old.’ Joe laughed. ‘Oh, he was a right one for the tricks, was Pierre. I promised I’d never forget him, would pay him a visit. A holiday, perhaps. As a matter of fact,’ Joe said, holding up his binoculars, ‘Pierre got these for me. Zeiss. Spoils of war. I’d had to make do with an old pair of Geoffrey’s, see, there was a crack in one lens and the dust–’

‘The address,’ Barbara said. ‘How did you get Dora’s address?’

‘Oh, I digress,’ Joe said. ‘It’s just there’s so much of life to catch up on.’ You being my daughter, and all. ‘Forgive me. We were riding along La Greve d’Azette. Tell the truth, I hadn’t believed, until that day, that the war was over and I’d be going home. The tide was out and the sand stretched for miles, with all those rocky needles sticking up. And there was the Wehrmacht, but this time the soldiers were walking along the beach holding hurling sticks, only Pierre told me they were mine detectors.’

Joe looked at Barbara, all neat and spruce. He’d introduce her to hurling, one day. Take her home to Ireland, perhaps.

‘Oh, but the island looked poor, shabby. I thought it would take a while to get it shipshape, rid it of the camps, the railway, the fortifications.’

‘Dora–’ Barbara reminded him.