Fresh from one of the best showers he’s ever had in his life, Isaac walks back across the field, still towelling his hair dry. He sees Polly and Tommy sitting with the baby on the tartan rug outside the van, carefully building a tower of bricks. As Polly puts the last one in place, Reggie swings his arm round and dashes them all to the ground, gurgling with joy. Peter emerges from the awning, stretching mightily.
‘Good morning, campers,’ he says. ‘Have you seen Lucia? I thought I’d take us all for breakfast in that little café by the farmhouse when you’re ready.’
‘She’s not in the van,’ says Polly. ‘I wondered where she’d gone when Reg woke me an hour ago but I thought she must be at the shower block.’
‘If she was, I’d have seen her. I was in there for ages. There’s oodles of hot water.’
Polly giggles. ‘Yes, I’d forgotten about the unisex facilities when I went in there last night. I almost bumped into a man in the urinals. I don’t know who was more surprised, him or me. He zipped up so fast he made his eyes water.’
‘Must have been a Brit then,’ says Isaac. ‘The locals wouldn’t bat an eyelid.’
‘So Lucia isn’t there.’
‘No. Mum seemed a bit edgy last night when we got here though. Didn’t you think so, Uncle Tommy?’
‘I didn’t notice,’ Tommy says, concentrating hard on rebuilding the tower.
‘Maybe she was just shattered from all the driving,’ says Polly, frowning. ‘I meant to wake up and take over but I was so comfy, and Reggie was out for the count. I didn’t even realise we’d covered so much ground until we stopped.’
Tommy, Peter and Isaac pull up camping chairs and sit down to wait for Lucia. The morning sunshine warms their faces as they watch Reggie on his blanket rolling onto his tummy and attempting a kind of commando movement. He looks like a very round caterpillar that’s forgotten how to move forwards, thinks Isaac, smiling down at the little boy who’s red in the face now. His eyes meet Polly’s when he glances up again and he can’t help noticing she’s not in a hurry to look away, for a change.
Tommy has his eyes closed against the morning sun now and Peter is reading an old Ian Fleming novel he picked up in the site office which doubles as the farmhouse kitchen. He doesn’t react as Isaac reaches for Polly’s hand. The tips of their fingers touch and the blood rushes to Isaac’s face, and to several other places. He shifts slightly, hoping she hasn’t noticed, but the movement draws her gaze. She grins, stroking the palm of his hand and making matters much worse.
Just as Isaac’s wondering how on earth he’s ever going to be able to ever get out of this chair again, they hear a shout. Lucia is strolling across the grass, accompanied by a chicken, two ducks and a small white Jack Russell.
‘This place is amazing,’ she calls. ‘And look who I met on my walk.’
Reggie hauls himself into a sitting position, entranced, as the bravest duck waddles almost up to the rug. He claps his hands and lurches forward, banging his nose hard on the ground as he lands. The ensuing howls frighten the poultry away but the little dog sits down hopefully, cocking its head to one side. One ear is folded backwards. It has a black patch over one eye, giving it a vaguely piratical air.
Polly, busy cuddling Reggie, doesn’t see Isaac adjusting his shorts, and the moment passes safely. He bends to make a fuss of Lucia’s new camp follower.
‘What’s it called?’ he asks, deeply glad of the distraction.
‘She is called Pickles,’ Lu says proudly, as if she’s created the dog herself. ‘The sad thing is, she’s got no home. The farmer’s wife says she’s taken her in. She belonged to an old man in the next village who died recently. He was an ex-pat, originally from Worthing, but Pickles was born here last year.’
Lucia looks at Isaac expectantly. Oh bugger, it’s happening again. She’s trying to tell him something without words. Surely his mother must know by now that’s an uphill struggle. Light dawns.
‘Mum, you can’t be hinting you want us to take her home with us? Can you?’
Peter laughs. ‘I rather think that’s exactly what’s on her mind. Hello, Pickles. How do you feel about being adopted?’
‘But Mum, we can’t. What about quarantine and stuff? Don’t animals have to have passports these days? And what would Nigel and Petunia say?’
Lucia smiles at him, the picture of serenity. ‘I’m sure we can get around all that,’ she says. ‘If nobody takes pity on her, Pickles is going to have to go to the local dog’s home soon. The three Alsatians who live here don’t like her, apparently. I don’t know why. How could anyone not love Pickles?’
The little dog has settled herself on the rug now and is nuzzling Reggie’s toes. He whoops with delight, squashed nose forgotten.
‘You see that? Reg loves him already,’ says Lucia. ‘Leave the details to me. Pickles is going to live with us, even if we have to come back for her later in the year.’
She folds her arms and stares at Isaac, daring him to argue. He shrugs. Resistance is useless, and anyway, Pickles is already melting his own heart as she snuggles up to Reggie and goes suddenly to sleep.
When Peter and Polly have had showers, the whole party wander over to the café, equally hindered and entertained by Pickles who insists on circling their ankles, barking happily.
‘Now, don’t hold back. This is on me,’ says Peter, peering at the chalk board. ‘I can’t read French as well as I can understand it, sadly, and I’ve left my glasses at the van. Does that item at the top of the list translate as blood sausage?’
Isaac and Polly both shudder. ‘I’d like some of that wonderful crusty bread and lashing of butter and jam, preferably cherry,’ Polly says, getting up to place her order. ‘What about you, Isaac?’
In the end, they all opt for baguettes fresh from the farmhouse oven, with a dish of sunshine-yellow butter and a selection of preserves that are almost too pretty to eat.
‘This is heaven,’ mumbles Polly though a mouthful of bread. ‘I want to stay here forever.’
‘Déjà vu,’ says Tommy. ‘You said something very similar when we were in the pub in Pengelly, and you had your mouth full then too. I bet you say that to all the campsites.’
‘Mmm,’ agrees Lu, reaching for the mug of hot chocolate that’s just been placed in front of her, ‘I don’t blame her. This is wonderful. Anyway, we’re not going anywhere until well after lunch.’
‘How come? I thought you’d want to get on and visit … you know …’ Tommy tails off.
‘Yes, I did, but I’ve just been talking to the farmer and he’s very kindly offered to be our driver if we can wait until later when he’s finished his work.’
‘But we’ve got our own transport,’ says Isaac, frowning. ‘Why do we need a lift?’
Lucia waves a hand around their encampment. They’ve put the awning and tent up, the chairs are all out and the barbecue is set up ready for the evening. ‘Do you really want to unhook the awning and pack things away?’ she asks. ‘You moaned enough last time when you and Polly wanted to go shopping. If we can get a lift, we can leave everything like this.’
‘Perfect,’ says Peter. ‘I must admit to being rather jaded this morning. A lazy start to the day is what we all need. Especially you, Lucia, after your long drive last night. I can’t believe we all slept for so long. So what are we aiming to do when we reach Dieppe? Do you know exactly where you want to be?’
Lucia reaches for a baguette and tears off a chunk, taking her time to butter it. She chooses apricot jam to spoon over the top and eats half of her bread before she answers. Polly’s feeding Reggie a bowl of mushy cereal and Peter’s working hard not to lose a tooth on a particularly resilient crust. Eventually she looks up.
‘Yes, I’m pretty sure I can direct us to the right place. And before you all start clucking again, I want to go there. I need to.’
The farmer’s wife emerges from the kitchen at this point, offering more hot chocolate, a pot of coffee, croissants and advice on how to get Pickles home to England. The moment passes in a flurry of extra drinks and Reggie upturning his cereal bowl on his head. The resulting spluttering as milk cascades down his face distracts Polly, but Isaac, deeply affronted at the insinuation he’s clucking and filled with a growing sense of dread of what’s to come, stares his mother straight in the eye.
‘I can’t help thinking this is a very bad idea,’ he says.