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that she wasn’t at church of a Sunday—she heard folks twittering about it. Still, those who wanted her help came to find her; the rest of them could do as they pleased.
    She had some cod liver oil with her too, and a little St John’s Wort, which she gave to those who looked especially glum. Some of the men were leaving to join the army on the mainland. It wasn’t so many years ago that Jèrriais men had first swapped their pitchforks and fishing lines for guns and grenades and skipped off to fight the Germans in France. Half of them had stayed there for good.
    Frank.
    There was a compression within her chest whenever she thought of him, even after all these years. She remembered clinging around his neck; the shining gold on her new wedding band; the sour-wool smell of his uniform; the way her tears had stood like jewels on the stiff cloth, until he’d brushed them off, then turned to leave.
    There were wives and sweethearts crying now. And, like a daguerreotype of twenty-five years before, there were plenty of howling children, clinging on to Papa’s legs. Little ones pick up on moods, even when they don’t fully understand. People don’t give children enough credit—they’re born with old heads on their shoulders.
    Edith did what she could to be of some comfort. Passed a sugared almond to a child here and there. Gave some of the women a tight embrace or a kind word. Held poor Rebecca Mourant’s hair back while she vomited; made sure she didn’t splash her good shoes.
    She saw the Duret family but didn’t try to speak to them. No one likes to make a scene and she’d not exchanged so much as a glance with them since Sarah had screamed her from their house six months ago: And don’t ever come back, you interfering old witch!
    Claudine’s papa was the only one leaving, it seemed. He had a small bag and not much else. Off to fight, or he’d be taking the family with him, surely? None of Edith’s business, of course. Not now, in any case.
    Claudine had grown frail and fretful since Edith had last seen her. It tugged at her to think of how chubby she’d been as a tiny babe. Edith recalled blowing raspberries into her fat little stomach when she’d changed her nappy. Memories: holding her close, pressing kisses to a little mouth, squashed into a fish pout. Bicycling those plump legs while the chuckles juddered through her body. And now, Edith might as well have been a stranger for all the family looked at her.
    Edith tried to see Claudine with an outsider’s measuring gaze. She was thin-faced, sallow and ill-kempt. Wild, knotted hair and torn boys’ trousers and a boy’s shirt—grubby around the collar. Edith’s fingers itched to go and comb out that hair and give her a good scrub and a kiss on the forehead.
    Instead she watched, as Claudine turned to Sarah and said, ‘Why can’t we go with Papa?’
    Sarah’s voice was the same cigarette-harsh rasp that Edith remembered.
    ‘Well, dear, they don’t let women and children fight in the army.’
    Claudine giggled. ‘No , Maman. I mean to live. So we’re not here when the Germans arrive. Can’t we go to England with Papa and leave the war here?’
    ‘Be a good girl and hush yourself,’ Sarah said. ‘We’re staying. No point in fussing. What would Rowan and Elderflower do without us? Besides, where would we live in England?’
    Claudine nodded and poked at a stone with her toe. ‘Who will care for us?’
    Sarah’s face was flat and impassive as she stared out at the departing boat. ‘Wave to Papa, Claudine. We shall care for ourselves.’
    ‘But how? Where will we get food? And money?’
    Edith winced; she could see the hardness in Sarah’s jaw and she half expected to hear the sound of a slap.
    But Sarah glanced around at the surrounding crowd and knelt down in front of Claudine and took her shoulders in her hands. Edith could see Sarah’s fingers digging into her daughter’s flesh.
    ‘Gracious, what have I told you about fussing? Those are