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live in the country is soI don’t get pestered all the time, so I’m not sure that bringing people closer to me—’
    â€˜George,’ Charles interrupted, ‘you’ve been living in the country for eighty-three years, it’s not like you chose to.’
    â€˜No, but if I had been given the choice, I would have chosen to live exactly where I am. So that no one bothers me!’
    Nobody had a good hand, and tiredness was starting to set in. The laying of cards had given way to wide yawns. Finally, Ginette was named winner and they put away the mat in the dresser covered in trinkets. It was time to unpack their bags and put on their well-ironed pyjamas.
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    Ginette’s house was large, although she only occupied a small part of it; the rest was rented out in the summer to two families who had come here for their holidays for years. There was no lack of spare rooms, and so George and Charles each had their own.
    George brought his things into his new quarters, a small bedroom with a bolster (far better than those little pillow things), a brown chenille bedcover and a large wardrobe that smelled of mothballs. The mattress looked like a good one. And if he was honest, if there was one thing that really scared him about this mad trip, it was the beds they’d have to sleep in. He had brought earplugs for the noise and citronella for the mosquitoes, but bedding was anyone’s guess. After carrying out the briefest of ablutions in the small washroom he shared with Charles, he sat on the bed, pulled off his slippers and lay down carefully, breathing a sigh of relief as he did so. This bed would do just fine. Hepicked up his book, a thriller by Mary Higgins Clark, but found he could not concentrate on it. His head was spinning, buzzing, humming, restless and full of thoughts. It seemed like his mind was trying to tell him something. It had to be said, George was unfortunately prone to occasional rushes of optimism.
    Good grief, he was feeling marvellous. It was as though the bed had been made for him, and around him it was as silent as it was in his own home, with nothing but a very quiet rustling if he really listened hard – was it the wind in the pine trees or the sound of the Atlantic? Perhaps he was imagining it. The geometric pattern of the wallpaper in varying shades of beige was soothing, almost hypnotic. The two meals had been delicious, yet unpretentious. George couldn’t stand pretentious cooking. Or pretentious anything else, for that matter. The meals had been simple, as if Ginette had not gone to any great pains to prepare them. But fifty years of married life had taught him that she had probably spent the whole morning cooking, and perhaps even the night before as well. Did she cook like that all the time, making simple dishes just how he liked them?
    He’d be glad to come here again, as a matter of fact. Would Ginette perhaps invite him back sometime? Maybe they could stay another night instead of stopping off in Gâvres? He didn’t really fancy spending a day with cousin Odette. He didn’t know her, and didn’t feel inclined to change that; she had always sounded rather difficult. And she was a bit of a God-botherer, which was not George’s cup of tea at all. What would Charles think of this change of plan? It wouldn’t affect the schedule too much, after all, and it would mean they could all go and visitNoirmoutier together. The island was meant to be spectacular whatever the weather. All these thoughts lulled George into a deep, simple sleep. Perfectly simple.

Friday 26 September
    Notre-Dame-de-Monts (Vendée)
    The next morning he woke up in a delicious state of confusion. He had slept so well that he woke up with no idea where he was or what time it was. For a few seconds, he felt as good as new. The sun was up. 8.47 a.m. A miracle. He lay in bed without moving a muscle.
    Meanwhile, Ginette and Charles were in the kitchen preparing