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instance. My nose is getting all warm and dry and the fur round my collar has started to prick. That’s a sure sign of something odd going on – probably ABROAD where Maurice and F.O. have swanned off to. The cat’s all right, more or less (he usually is), but I’m not so sure about the vicar. I think his feet are in it again … though of course, being with the Brighton Type, I suppose they are bound to be. Only this time I think they’re in deeper than usual and things are going to be a bit HAIRY. Mind you, the cat would say I was imagining things. But I know what I know.
    Anyway, think I’ll trot off now and chew things over with Florence. She is very big and very soothing and talks a lot of sense. I like that. Her owner is taking us both to the park this morning and we shall have a right old romp, and because she’s a bit soft will probably buy us some chocolates on the way home – especially if I put on my Orphan Bouncer act.

The Vicar’s Version
     
     
    As Nicholas had predicted, the Customs procedures presented no threat and we were waved through without a word – though whether that was to do with my dog collar and ‘witless’ smile or simply early morning apathy, it was hard to tell. Far more disturbing and painful was the crossing itself: a nightmare journey of churned-up seas and churned-up stomachs.
    The principal problem was whether to sit quietly below with a book and steadying brandy or to totter around on deck braced by gale and drenching spray. Neither was congenial: the saloon being hot and full of the wan and whingeing, the deck cold and heaving. In the end I divided my time between both areas, feeling sorry for myself and yearning for sight of the French coast. Of Nicholas there was not a sign. Having boasted on a number of occasions of his impervious sea-legs, he had, I later learnt, procured a space in the purser’s cabin where he had remained prostrate and green for the entire voyage. Indeed, it was probably the sight of the driver’s jaundiced face and bloodshot eyes that deterred investigation of the Citroën’s boot when we finally reached Dieppe.
    Of the three of us it was my sister who held up the best. Indeed, to my envy, she seemed to be almost enjoying herself. Chatting gaily to the French barman and exchanging Gauloises and pleasantries with two male passengers standing next to her, she was clearly getting in the holiday mood.
       
    Returning later to the saloon after a challenging stagger on deck, I saw that the three of them had retired to a table and were playing dominoes. Admittedly, the table was anchored to the floor, but given the circumstances I felt this was no mean feat. Seeing me, Primrose hailed me over and made introductions.
    ‘Francis,’ she said, ‘do come and meet Mr Climp and Mr Mullion. They live quite near you, over in Berkshire … Crowthorne, didn’t you say?’ she asked, turning to the taller of the two.
    He nodded. ‘That’s right – nice little place as long as you like rhododendrons and adders. It’s the sandy soil, makes ‘em both flourish!’
    I smiled politely and asked if they were on holiday.
    ‘You could say so. Got a bit of business to attend to in the south,’ said the other, ‘but thought we’d combine it with a spot of walking and sightseeing first. I was here in the war, you know. First time back. Be interesting to look at a few old haunts. Though things have changed of course – no more tanks and Jerries getting in the way.’ He laughed.
    At that moment the boat gave a sudden lurch and the dominoes skidded to the floor but I was checked in picking them up by the sound of a child’s excited voice announcing that the town was in sight. I rushed to the porthole, eager as the child to salute dry land. We were indeed approaching the arms of the harbour, and already I could make out the buildings on the quay and in the distance the outline of the cathedral tower.
    Disembarkation was what you might call leisurely, and the