I’m not one for goodbyes, as you might guess. But I wanted to thank you. If you’d told me a week ago I’d be crossing the Channel on a narrowboat, I’d have said you were daft. But you’ve shown me what’s possible, and you’ve reminded me what’s important too. So I’m not going back to England just yet. Jim can take care of the Starling. I’m going north to Belgium instead, to find Jack’s grave. The landlady of the hotel knows you’re here and will help with anything you need. She speaks English and I told her something of your story. She’s very impressed. She should be.

Frank

PS: the hotel is called La Belle Ecluse. Apparently, that means the beautiful lock. Sounds better in French—like your song, Charlie.

“It’s very him,” said Lotti, after she and Ben had read it together. “I mean, I can’t imagine him saying goodbye, it’s true. And it’s a very kind note. Beautiful, really. And I’m glad he’s going to Belgium. But I’ll miss him.”

“And now we’re alone.” Ben swallowed, thinking of the task ahead without Frank’s solid presence beside him.

“Not exactly alone,” laughed Lotti. “Not with seven dogs! Oh, Ben, look at them! Their little squashed noses and their little pink feet! And isn’t Elsie clever? She knows exactly what to do.”

Lotti leaned with her elbows on the mattress, gazing in rapture at the five tiny creatures, four black and one toffee, stumbling and clambering over each other as Elsie licked them clean.

Federico climbed into Lotti’s lap and nuzzled her neck jealously.

“You’re clever too,” she whispered, hugging him. “The four little black ones are just like Elsie, but the tiny toffee one is going to be exactly like you. Look, she even has your ears! I’m going to call her Delphine, because it means dolphin and she was almost born at sea.”

“You can’t tell it’s a girl yet,” objected Ben.

“I can,” said Lotti. “I know. What shall we call the others?”

Ben looked round the workshop for inspiration. His eyes fell on the collection of Dickens novels in the bookcase, which Nathan had read out loud to him and Sam, over and over for years.

“Pip,” he said. “From Great Expectations. And Dodger, of course, from Oliver Twist, and Fred from A Christmas Carol, and Boz, which was Dickens’s own nickname. Do you think we can touch them?”

He reached out a hand to Elsie, as if asking her permission, and she licked it. Very gently, he laid a finger on the soft warm body of one of the black puppies and caught his breath.

“I can feel its heartbeat …” Then, with a touch of sadness, “I wish Nathan could see this.”