On sunny days they’d go for a ride, she sitting on the crossbar of his bicycle, he pedalling, his arms embracing her as he gripped the handlebars, nibbling her ear or kissing the back of her neck. She yearned for his touch, his company. He was her nectar, she its thirsty drinker.

Today, as the sea licked the shoreline in large crescent dribbles, she thought she could live here forever, make a home with Geoffrey in the farmhouse, a family. She thought how small her world had become, reduced to this tiny promontory on this tiny island, she who had only ever known the grand cities of Europe. And how huge her world had become, with just she and Geoffrey. It was always in the detail that you saw the bigger picture. That was what her father used to say. Geoffrey was her haven, a refuge from the turmoil of war and her jagged fears and emotions. One day they would leave the island, break free. Once the war was over. Surely, it couldn’t last forever. Not a hundred years. She tried to think ahead, but the concrete defences around the island shut off her dreams, along with her escape. Geoffrey was in the here and now, the today of her life, her happiness and release. Climbing the hill from Anse la Coupe, freewheeling down to Geoffrey’s farm, the Germans and the island, her worries and her troubles were cast into the breeze. Who knew what kind of future would turn a corner, come from nowhere, tucked inside a wheelbarrow or falling from the sky?

Chapter Four: Joe

CHAPTER FOUR

JOE

Jersey: January 1942 – January 1943

Joe missed the boxing. He may have been small and light, but his arms were strong and his feet nimble. Every morning he did his press-ups, eleven…nineteen…thirty-one…forty-two…forty-nine, fifty, until he lay sprawled and panting on the floor. The boxing had bulked him up as a boy, so his body had taken on the definition of muscle, the markings of a man, even though he was tiny enough to be a jockey.

Boxing was an art, a clever sport, with the finesse of a dance and the manners of gentlemen, not the bare knuckles and brute strength of ruffians. Jab and cross, slip and parry, bob and weave. In another world, he’d have chosen the boxing. In another world, he would have been brave enough. But it was a hard choice, the finger of God wagging in his face and his daidí firing rage. He didn’t have the daring.