“Frannie says we’re missing out, though. It’s all happening elsewhere and we’re just stuck in another seaside town. It’s all rushing forward, all going on farther south, and he’s still here, taking photographs of fishermen and beach huts and café terraces, and he’s done all of that already.”

Harry could hear Francis’s inflections in Will’s voice. “There are worse things.”

“Tell him that.”

Harry looked at the shifting liquid landscape ahead. An old woman was raking for cockles down the beach, doubled in reflection in the water beside her. Clouds scudded across. He could make out the movement of a cluster of wading birds at the water’s edge. He shut his eyes to the glitter of it and lay back on the sand, breathing in the hot smell of seaweed, tasting the salt on his lips. The saline wind sharpened his senses and made him feel intensely alive. He considered that he could quite happily see out the war here, painting busy skies and beachscapes, with the warmth of the winter sun on his face.

“Come on,” said Will. “I promised Francis that we’d meet him up on the hill.”

They picked their way back up the beach, the wind tugging at the roots of their hair and making sails of their clothes. The clouds were moving fast and shadows shifted on the sand. Flags and music pulled in the wind. The dunes were full of khaki camping, like a Scouts’ jamboree. As he turned and looked back toward the sea, Harry felt a sudden reluctance to leave the littoral light, which lent itself to watercolor. It suddenly mattered that he found the time to paint the sand dunes, the salt marsh, and the maritime pines. He needed to draw the cliffs and the herring boats and the moonlight silvering the shingle. Suddenly he felt that he had lost nine months and the need to put it all down on paper was urgent.

AS THEY CLIMBED up toward the calvary, Francis was there, leaning over the railings, taking angles on the plunging rooftops and the busy port below. Will waved and then Harry could tell that Francis was watching them through his lens. He smiled behind the camera as they approached.

“Is that noise the guns?” Will asked. “It’s louder from up here, isn’t it? Is it closer today?”

“Fret not, mon petit frère. It’s just the wind playing tricks.”

Francis put his arm around Will’s shoulders and Harry pushed his hands down into the pockets of his greatcoat.

“It’s colder up here,” he said.

“Is it meant to be seen by the sailors coming in to the port?” Will looked up at the crucifix.

“I guess so,” Harry replied, “to watch them as they go out to sea and return them safely home again.”